


Coupe de Foudre

by Vixeree



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Boggarts, Character Development, F/M, Female Friendship, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gryffindor/Slytherin Inter-House Relationships, Humor, Magical Tattoos, Marauders, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Marauders Friendship (Harry Potter), Minor James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Quidditch, Remus Lupin Needs a Hug, Room of Requirement Shenanigans, Sirius Black & James Potter Friendship, Slow Burn, Squibs, Texting, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Wuthering Heights References, Young Remus Lupin, Young Sirius Black
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-05
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-06-10 21:33:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19516294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vixeree/pseuds/Vixeree
Summary: In which;Remus Lupin is terrible at romance,Evan Rosier is a fan of Emily Brontë,Grace Jones unwittingly secures the affections of both a secret werewolf and a future Death-Eater,Asha Moor is attacked by a Demon Horse in the presence of her new arch-rival,and Sirius Black learns that he has to Do Better.James Potter also attempts to pole-vault into the Girl's Dormitory, but that's a whole other thing.





	1. Of Kettleburn, Minchum & Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Kettleburn, Minchum, and Black. Emily Brontë is abducted.

# Coupe de Foudre

###  _By Vixere_

_“Fate is like a strange, unpopular restaurant filled with odd little waiters who bring you things you never asked for and don't always like.”_  
_― Lemony Snicket_

* * *

_**September 3rd, 1975  
Care of Magical Creatures, Fifth Year Class** _

**Grace**

Professor Silvanus Kettleburn had been teaching Care of Magical Creatures at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for no less than fifty years. In that time, his reckless, devil-may-care teaching style had seen him parted from no less than seventeen teeth, one eye, and two-and-a-half limbs. 

Professor Kettleburn now got around with the aid of a rather advanced-looking pair of magical crutches and a spindly peg-leg which spontaneously spouted accouterments as though it were a swiss army knife. His remaining arm was heavily tattooed with ancient runes, which he explained were meant to bring good luck (“But if they _actually_ worked, he’d have more bloody _limbs_ ,” Asha had said) and his fingers were encased with several gaudy, iron-wrought rings. 

The overall effect was bizarre and intimidating. It was well-known that during his tenure Professor Kettleburn had amassed no fewer than sixty-two periods of probation for the various life-threatening incidents that seemed to happen on his watch. One of which was when a worm he provided for the play of _The Fountain of Fair Fortune_ (which was in fact, an Engorged Ashwinder) exploded and started a fire. This started a duel between the girls playing Amata and Asha, which culminated in Professor Herbert Beery copping a nasty disfiguring jinx to the head and led to his early retirement as a professor. 

There were other such stories, sixty-one to be precise. 

Despite this, Professor Kettleburn was Muggle-born Grace Jones’ favourite teacher. 

Grace loved the way Kettleburn’s remaining eye sparkled with enthusiasm as he explained the various habits of chimeras and firecrabs and thestrals. She loved the way that he knew the creatures in his care - intimately, intuitively, as though they were his dearest friends (she thought this was very probably the case). She appreciated his patient explanations and the fact that he always had time to answer her questions after class. 

Grace’s dearest friend - Asha Moor, who in fact took her namesake from _The Fountain of Fair Fortune_ \- did not share in this opinion. 

“What does he even bloody want this firewood for, anyway?” Asha muttered grumpily, bending low to snatch a twig from the forest floor. Grace carried out the task of collecting sticks beside her quite cheerfully. 

“I suppose we will soon find out,” Grace replied, lifting a fallen branch from the ground and adding it to the bundle in her arms. 

Asha grumbled, brushing her dark brown hair out of her face impatiently as it was ruffled in the cold highland wind. Asha’s hair was long and fine, easily whipped up in the elements, and Grace rather wondered why she hadn’t taken the precaution of tying it back today - they had double Care of Magical Creatures followed by double Herbology, after all. 

Before Grace could comment on her friend’s lack of foresight, she was distracted by the sound scuffling and chuckling nearby. 

Her head whipped around and she tried to repress a rueful smile. Of course it was _them_. 

James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew were partially obscured behind a nearby thicket, but Grace could still see that their heads were bowed conspiratorially. They spoke in hushed tones, shoulders squared and eyes darting about for eavesdroppers. 

As if sensing her gaze on him, Remus Lupin suddenly straightened up, his yellow-green eyes fixing on hers. He inched his head towards her, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. 

Grace immediately looked away, and tried to busy herself. 

Grace found it hard not to be charmed by Remus Lupin. He was quick-witted and affable. She liked his brown curls and his barely-there freckles. He wasn’t conventionally good-looking, certainly not when contrasted with boys like Sirius Black and James Potter, but Grace liked him anyway. 

Grace shifted the bundle of sticks in her arms to get a better purchase on them as she allowed her mind to wander. 

_Remus Lupin is not at all like other boys… He isn't loud or brash or arrogant... He's kind. He's sensitive._

_He's... staring at me?_

Grace was so taken aback by this that she nearly tripped over a partially unearthed tree-root. Recovering herself, she quirked an eyebrow at her classmate. 

She noted with some satisfaction that a slight blush coloured Lupin’s angular face. Despite this, his gaze did not waver. 

“Can we help you, Lupin?” Asha inquired archly, sidling up next to Grace. 

Asha had plainly not tried very hard to follow Professor Kettleburn’s instructions; she carried everything that she had managed to collect easily in one fist. Grace, by contrast, was nearly teetering under the weight of what felt like a hundred sticks. 

“No help necessary, Moor.” Potter said smoothly, appearing at Lupin’s side in much the same way that Asha had appeared at hers. The boy had hazel eyes and untidy black hair which stuck up at odd angles; at present his pleasant face was plastered with a wide grin. 

As if summoned, Sirius Black materialised next to him. What a pair they were, Black and Potter! Grace hardly ever saw one without the other. Asha had once remarked that Black must even take Potter on dates with him. Grace didn’t know if this comment was intended as hyperbolic or not, truthfully, it could go either way. 

Sirius Black had an aristocratic, bored air about him. He was by far the least approachable of the cohort, though that didn’t stop half the girls in Hogwarts sighing over him. If anything, it rather added to his appeal. 

He didn’t even spare a glance in Grace and Asha’s direction before tugging Potter away by the arm, muttering something to him under his breath. Potter in turn grabbed Lupin and the three boys hastily retreated into the bushes. 

Grace noticed Asha’s brown eyes narrowing at Sirius’ back. Asha Moor _hated_ being ignored. 

“What are you lot up to?” Asha called after them, brow furrowed and frowning. 

“Ask us no questions, and we’ll tell you no lies, Moor.” Potter said lightly, inching his head slightly in regard before stepping back into line between Lupin and Black, casually slinging an arm around each of them.

“Well, that was clear as dishwater.” Asha remarked, her eyes following the progress of the boys as they trudged arm-in-arm out of sight. Grace snorted. “Come on, let’s get back to Kettleburn.”

* * *

_**Same day, twenty minutes later** _

**Asha**

Asha should have known it’d be about making a great big fire. It was Kettleburn, after all. The mad old goat. 

“Right!” Professor Kettleburn surveyed the pile of wood that his fifth-years had amassed enthusiastically. “You’re all in for a bloody great treat today, I tell you. Can anybody tell me what an Ashwinder is? Miss Jones?”

Grace lowered her hand, which she had immediately raised in response to Kettleburn’s question. Asha smirked, knowing that her friend could hardly help herself when it came to magical creatures. “An Ashwinder is a serpent which is born from the ashes of magical fire.” 

“Very good.” Professor Kettleburn smiled broadly. “Take five points for Gryffindor. And another five, if you can tell me the properties of Ashwinder eggs?”

“Ashwinder eggs are highly flammable, they’ll explode out of nowhere if not properly stored. But when frozen they’re useful as an antidote for fevers and chills. They’re also a key ingredient in most love potions.” 

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” Professor Kettleburn smiled at Grace, eye twinkling. Asha noticed Grace was trying not to look too pleased with herself and shook her head disparagingly. 

“Teacher’s pet.” Asha muttered out of the corner of her mouth.

Grace shoved her lightly on the shoulder in response, causing Asha to snicker. 

“Now, today I will be lighting a magical fire with the kindling you have collected from the forest. It should take about fifteen minutes for it to birth any Ashwinders; I’ll have to help it along with an enchantment or two. In the meantime, gather round and copy out the entry on Ashwinders from Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Page two, from memory.” Professor Kettleburn hobbled towards the wood pile, which was bundled so high it looked very much like a bonfire waiting to be lit.

He used his one remaining arm to draw his wand (a crooked piece of wood that looked so shabby that Asha couldn’t imagine it had come from Ollivanders) and muttered a spell under his breath. Fire spurted from the tip of his wand and roared to life as it came into contact with the kindling.

The wave of heat that came off the heap was so intense that Asha jumped back in alarm. 

Asha and Grace chose to settle a safe distance from the blaze with the other Gryffindor girls, with whom they shared a dormitory. 

There was Lily Evans, a pretty Muggle-born girl who had thick, dark red hair and startlingly green, almond-shaped eyes. Her best friend Mary Macdonald was settled next to her, dirty blond hair pulled back in a messy bun as she untidily scrawled something that definitely wasn't classwork on a spare bit of parchment. 

Then there was Emmeline Vance; stately and grey-eyed, she spoke with a deep, clipped voice. There was something effortlessly dignified about Emmeline - Asha couldn’t help but admire her. 

Then there was Marlene. 

Asha told herself that she didn’t dislike Marlene. She didn’t _want_ to dislike Marlene. She tried to get along with the girl, she really did. 

They just didn’t click. Or maybe, they clicked too much. In any case, there had always been an unbearable sense of friction between them, of toe-treading, and being rubbed the wrong way. 

They were the same in a lot of ways, Asha knew. But she just couldn’t like her, no matter how hard she tried. 

If Marlene McKinnon was an elbow to the ribs, Asha Moor was an angrily hurtled fist to the nose. Similar, but not necessarily complementary. 

“Please try harder,” Grace had chided after the beginning-of-year feast last night. “She’s really a nice person, you know that.”

The problem was, Asha did know that. It just didn’t matter very much when it came to getting on with a person. It wasn’t a matter of morality, but compatibility. 

She’d tried to explain this to Grace, though she doubted her friend had really taken on board what she’d said. “Look, there are plenty of perfectly good and nice people that I’m just not going to get on with. That’s just life. It’s not personal, Gracie. But I don’t want to force a friendship just because we share a room.”

It was Marlene, however, who noticed Grace and Asha’s approach and wordlessly made space for them to join the circle. 

Grace beamed in gratitude at Marlene and Asha attempted the same, and felt her face spasm in some facsimile of a smile. 

Settling down in the grass cross-legged, Asha pulled her textbook from her bag and began copying out the entry on Ashwinders. 

It was then that Sirius Black’s voice drifted over to Asha. Her shoulders tensed. 

He was discussing girls, loudly, and he was being a right pig about it. 

“Vanity, was it?” Sirius drawled, inspecting his nails boredly. “Fancied me, didn’t she? Not my type though. Big nose and great hulking shoulders. Quite mannish.” 

There was an outbreak of sniggering at this. Asha felt a knot forming in her stomach, and bile rose in her throat. 

She was riled by the cool indifference with which Sirius ridiculed poor, besotted Emma Vanity. She imagined how it would feel if a boy she liked talked about her that way, how humiliated she’d be, and her mouth set in a hard line. 

A few of the girls in her circle shifted uncomfortably, but none of them seemed to be able to find their voice. Lily was glaring over at Black with narrowed eyes, but even she didn’t seem to think such nastiness was worth arguing over. 

Asha, however, was not going to let this pass unchallenged. If Sirius Black wanted to act like a right pig, then she had no problem treating him as such. 

“Farbeit for me to disagree with the _great_ Sirius Black,” her voice shook slightly in anger as she stood and turned towards the spot where Sirius was lounging with his friends, "but the only thing I find wanting with Emma Vanity is her taste in men."

A ringing silence followed her words. Sirius looked at her, expression frozen. Nobody watching seemed to draw breath.

Asha heard Grace approach her quietly, standing a foot or so behind her. It was a small, inconspicuous move, but Asha knew what it meant; _I’ve got your back_.

Heartened by her friend’s quiet support, Asha stared Sirius down determinedly. Her arms were rigid by her sides, her hands clenched into fists. 

“What was that?” Sirius asked in a dangerously quiet voice, grey eyes narrowed. 

“You heard me,” Asha said, steeling herself. “Can't imagine why Emma — or _any_ girl for that matter — would ever go for you.” 

“Correct me if I'm wrong, Moor," Sirius replied coldly, gracefully pulling himself to his feet and brushing some dirt from his robes. He started towards her with a self-assured swagger. "But I don't remember ever asking for _your_ opinion.”

“It comes free of charge for arrogant pillocks like you.” Asha shot back without deliberation. “A complimentary service for those who need it most, if you please.” 

A couple of unwilling giggles resounded, and Sirius looked thunderous. His face drained of colour and he stepped towards her, his own fists clenched in anger now, too. 

He growled; "Nosy _bint—_ "

“Lily-livered milksop—” 

"Ugly slag—"

" _Dickhead—_ "

Sirius’ handsome, aristocratic face was white with fury; he drew his wand and pointed it threateningly at Asha. 

But she was just as quick. She pointed her wand squarely at Black, eyes blazing. 

There was uneasy tittering among the onlookers. Even James, who usually stood right alongside his friend in all of his endeavors, shifted uncomfortably now. 

“Come on Padfoot,” Potter muttered, “drop it, mate.”

He placed his hand on Sirius’ shoulder, but the other boy shrugged him off angrily.

“Come at me, then,” Asha said goadingly. “I’m not afraid of any nasty pureblood princelings."

"Take your best shot, Moor," Sirius growled, "I bet you miss."

Asha scoffed. "With a head as big as yours, I'm bound to hit something.” 

Sirius snarled, and for a moment it looked as though he really _was_ going to hex her. Nobody said a word, frozen and unable to do anything more than stare fixedly at the furious pair with bated breath. 

“Ash,” Grace warned in a hushed tone beside her, eyes wide in alarm. “Come on. You don’t need to duel him to make him look like a prat.”

“I just want to see what he looks like with tentacles,” Asha replied menacingly, wand aimed squarely between her opponent’s eyes.

That just about did it. 

They started to form the words at the exact same moment.

“— _Tentacli_ —”

“— _Fernuncul_ —”

“ _Merlin’s beard!_ What on earth are you two doing?!” 

Professor Kettleburn’s incredulous voice cut through the ringing silence. He had returned from the treeline, his arms were overladen with more twigs and branches to fuel the magic fire. 

“Put your wands away!” He commanded them firmly. 

Glaring furiously, Asha and Sirius slowly lowered their wands. Neither took eyes off the other, each of them plainly expected an attack to come as soon as a vulnerability presented itself. 

“Detention.” Kettleburn said firmly. “Both of you are to meet me at the edge of the Forbidden Forest at sundown tomorrow night. Really! I would expect better from fellow housemates.”

“Now, please attend to your Ashwinder eggs, any more disruptions and it’ll be fifty points from Gryffindor.” Kettleburn held up his hand as both Sirius and Asha opened their mouths to protest. “No arguments!”

* * *

_**Same day, 9pm  
Gryffindor Boys Dormitory** _

_**Sirius** _

Sirius Black was pacing.

He knew this was to the great chagrin of his friends James Potter and Remus Lupin, who were doing their utmost to ignore him.

“Bloody bint!” Sirius growled, mostly to himself. “Can’t keep her nose out! Should’ve hexed it for her as a reminder. It’d be no less than she deserves! Oh, if old Kettleburn hadn’t stopped me…”

James hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. 

Remus made no comment, but rather chose to busy himself with Bathilda Bagshot’s _A History of Magic_ , though Sirius noted that his eyes were not moving. 

Sirius glared at the leather-bound cover, which partially obscured Remus’ face from his view. “ _Really_ , Remus? You're siding with _Moor?”_

“I didn’t say anything of the sort, Padfoot,” Remus replied tiredly, lowering the book slightly. “Though for the record, I happen to think you _both_ behaved a little unreasonably today.”

“ _Me?_ Unreasonable?!” Sirius spluttered.

Remus raised a single eyebrow, and Sirius began pacing irritably, aiming a swift kick at the side of James’ bed in his frustration. 

Prongs winced at the impact, he was lying on his four-poster and attempting to mend an old tear in his Quidditch robes. “C’mon Pads…” He said weakly, giving him a ‘it’s not worth it’ look which Sirius duly ignored. 

_Pillock… Dickhead…_

_Lily-livered milksop..._

That one had smarted, if only for the creativity factor. But Sirius was _not_ going to be impressed by Moor's insulting abilities. 

"She had no _right_ —"

" _Padfoot_." James groaned, banging his head against the floor. "Please, _please_ , no more Moor talk!" 

"She just lost it at me out of _nowhere_ —" Sirius carried on without reference to James' futile pleas. He started pacing again. "Total bloody _banshee_." 

“That’s just Asha for you.” Peter supplied supportively from his perch by the window. “Always flying off the handle. Remember when she hexed Stebbins in third year?” 

Sirius walked over and clapped the sandy-haired boy on the shoulder. 

"See? _Wormy's_ got my back, not like you two defectors..." 

Eventually Sirius — out-paced and out-muttered — threw himself down onto his mattress and yanked the curtains shut. Futilely, he squirmed in his bedsheets, trying to get comfortable.

The image of Moor’s accusatory, furious glare swam before his eyes. Sirius rolled onto his side in his bed, frowning. 

He couldn’t help but feel burning shame. _Had_ he been too cruel about Vanity? It certainly hadn’t been the nicest thing to talk her like that, but he was just having a laugh… 

_It’s just Moor_ , he reasoned, _she just can't take a joke._

* * *

_**September 4th, 1975  
The Great Hall, Breakfast** _

_**Grace** _

When the Daily Prophet arrived that morning its headline was emblazoned in huge letters.

**JENKINS IS OUT: MINCHUM TAPPED TO LEAD MINISTRY AGAINST YOU-KNOW-WHO**

Grace quickly scanned the article beneath, her heartbeat quickening as it did every time the paper came bearing the words ‘You-Know-Who’. She and every other Muggle-born in Hogwarts shared in this fear, as evidenced by the sounds of low, worried murmuring and paper ruffling that she heard all around her. 

_‘This morning Minister for Magic Eugenia Jenkins has stepped down following criticism that her initiatives have proved inadequate and ineffectual against the growing power of He Who Must Not Be Named._

_In an unorthodox move, Minister Jenkins refused to allow the use of Veritaserum in interrogations pertaining to the apprehension of category one undesirables following the well-publicised muggle-killings which took place in Wessex last month. Her unwillingness to come down hard on known Death Eaters, including Antonin Dolohov — at large following the unspeakable torture of a Muggle-born witch in Kent last June — has been widely criticised by the Wizengamot._

_It is expected that Minister Jenkins will be replaced by Harold Minchum, whose illustrious background in Magical Law Enforcement and hardline stance against the Dark Arts are expected to better reflect the public will. For a full report on Minchum’s planned initiatives, see page six.’_

Asha peered over her shoulder. “Old Eugenia got the boot, did she?” 

“Looks like it,” Grace muttered, flicking to page six and beginning to read. “It's a bit of a surprise, isn’t it? Not every day a Minister gets outed.”

Asha shrugged and a funny expression came across her face. “It does happen. Not everybody is a wartime leader, if you know what I mean. My grandfather, for instance.”

Grace shrugged noncommittally. Asha’s grandfather had been Minister for Magic Hector Fawley, and had held office during the time when Grindelwald was rising to power. He had, in simple terms, ‘thrown a Eugenia’ and was unceremoniously replaced by a more capable Minister partway through his serving term. The Fawleys were among the sacred twenty-eight — one of the old Pureblood families.

But Asha chose to go by her Muggle mother’s family name, and most people in the year thought she was Muggle-born like Grace. 

This might’ve been an unorthodox move in the current climate — it was hardly safe to be Muggle-born right now — but Grace knew Asha had very good reasons for keeping her blood status secret. 

Grace threw down the paper abruptly. “God, enough, I want to read something pleasant.” 

She rifled through her bag, searching for the familiar feel of crinkled pages and a leather spine, but instead found a conspicuous absence. 

Alarmed, she picked up her bag and began pulling everything out. “Where is it?” She muttered to herself. 

“What’ve you lost?” Asha asked, draining the last dregs of tea from her cup and buttering a slice of toast hastily — breakfast was ending and students all around them were starting toward their classes for the day. 

“Wuthering Heights!” Grace exclaimed, patting down her now-empty bag, at a loss as to where her novel had gotten to. 

“I saw you pack it this morning, though,” Asha said in confusion, brow furrowing. “You definitely put it in the front pocket.”

“Well it’s not there now,” Grace said, trying not to be too upset over a mere novel. It was so strange though, she knew she’d put it in her bag… 

“Weird.” Asha frowned. “Have you tried _accio_?”

“Good idea,” Grace muttered and raised her wand. “ _Accio Wuthering Heights!_ ”

There was total stillness, and no book came whizzing towards Grace. Her frown deepened. 

“That should’ve worked!” Grace exclaimed irritably. “Even if I’d dropped it in the halls or left it in the dormitory! It should’ve come!” 

Asha looked troubled. “Yeah, that’s super weird. I dunno, maybe someone’s nicked it?”

“And made it unsummonable?” Grace frowned. “That’s not easy magic. Who’d _bother?”_

Asha shrugged, her eyes ghosting over the Slytherin table. “Dunno. But let’s drop it for now, we’ve got Charms.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dears, thank you very much for starting down the road with this fic. It's going to be a fun story, lots of fluff and romance and drama and quips. I've even bothered to include some actual plot from time to time, I promise. The whole story is planned out but I can see already that it will probably exceed the planned fifteen chapters by quite a bit. I have mapped these characters and their trajectories through the Hogwarts years and beyond. Please let me know what you think! 
> 
> (Also, as of 04.10, I've been going back through this story and making some edits).


	2. Beware the Wiggentrees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quidditch trials. Remus can't get Grace out of his head. Attack of the demon-horse.

_“There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.”  
― Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice _

* * *

__

_**September 5th, 1975  
Quidditch Tryouts ** _

_**Grace** _

Blue skies stretched unendingly overhead and a gentle, crisp breeze blew. Perfect flying conditions.

It was a good sign, Grace told herself, even though she didn’t much believe in signs. She needed all the luck she could get today. 

If James Potter was at all surprised to see her in the lineup for keeper trials, he did her the great courtesy of not showing it. Then again, given that Jackie Lowie — a second year who would look more at home in a beauty salon than a Quidditch pitch — had shown up, she guessed that she was hardly the most outlandish hopeful present. 

She took a deep breath, and spied Asha waving madly from the stands, giving her a huge thumbs up from between Emmeline Vance and Dorcas Meadowes. She couldn’t help but grin. 

What a dag. She thought affectionately as she caught Asha’s eye. 

“Right.” Potter said commandingly, appearing very much in his element as his eyes swept appraisingly over the seven or so students who had signed up to trial. “We’re looking for a new keeper, as we’ve lost Allison.” 

He paused somberly after these words, as if observing a moment of silence in honor of a fallen comrade. Grace was struck with the bizarre urge to laugh —  
with the way Potter grimaced, you’d think that Allison Peakes had tragically died, whereas in actual fact she had just graduated. 

Though Grace supposed that leaving Quidditch behind would constitute a fate worse than death to somebody like James Potter. In light of that knowledge, his morose demeanor made perfect sense. 

Potter gave the group a look over, the space between his brows creasing slightly. She bet that he believed none of them capable of filling their outgoing keeper’s boots. Well, she’d show him. 

It was ambition like she had never known before; her heart was in her throat, but she didn’t care. She steeled herself. She could do this. 

“Let’s start with a few laps of the pitch, on my mark.” 

Grace readied herself, mounting the Comet Two-Twenty that she had received as a birthday gift only a month earlier. 

Potter raised a silver whistle to his lips and blew.

She kicked off and felt all of her worries melt away. 

Soaring in a wide arc across the pitch, Grace became aware that a number of the other hopefuls had plainly not spent much time in the air before. Two failed to get off the ground and a third wobbled uncertainly through the air, struggling to pick up any real speed (or perhaps they were quite rightly afraid of what would happen if they did). 

Heartened, Grace accelerated, sharply turning at the peak of the oval and whizzing back towards where Potter was waiting. His expression betrayed nothing, but Grace couldn’t bring herself to care. She felt a whooping feeling in her stomach, the sort you might feel during a sudden drop on a rollercoaster. She couldn’t imagine anything more exhilarating than this — flying. It got her every time, the great miracle of being able to soar through the air like it was nothing. (“You’re such a Muggle-born,” Emmeline has said with a wry smile when she had tried explaining it to her the previous night, “everything’s a miracle to you lot.”). 

Potter gestured for Grace and the other three who had successfully completed their first lap to take another turn. She did this with ease, upping the acceleration for an extra added challenge, but when she dismounted she realised that one of the other students had faltered partway through the second lap. 

_That must be why Potter wanted us to go round again._ She thought. _They must have looked pretty shaky the first time round._

And so within two minutes, it was already down to three. The other four students who had botched the attempt went to sit on the stands, though only one or two looked truly disheartened. 

There were scattered claps and cheers for those who remained, and Grace distinctly heard Asha and Dorcas yelling out “goooo sports!” before dissolving into giggles. She rolled her eyes and grinned. 

“Alright. We’re going to see how you go saving goals now.” Potter said, gesturing to the stands. The other two Gryffindor chasers — a blond sixth-year by name of Bernard Cork and a tiny little third-year called Corbett Littletree rose from their seats and marched forward. 

Corbett had been something of a surprise addition to last year’s team, but Grace knew that the slight boy was much more than he appeared. At his debut game he had zipped through the air like he was born to it, and the only real concern anybody had for him was whether he could cop a hit from a bludger or not. 

First off the ranks was a second year boy that Grace didn’t recognise. He flew well enough but only saved three of the five goals — he seemed to have difficulty telling when the chasers were faking, and missed two in a row to Potter because of it. 

After that was Dahlia Buckling, who seemed to be suffering from extreme nerves. Grace wasn’t surprised, she always remembered the fourth year as having a jumpy, nervous disposition. Once Grace had asked her for a spare quill and she had nearly jumped out of her skin. Dahlia was dreadful, and Grace felt for her. She imagined Dahlia was a whole lot better than her performance today indicated. 

Grace didn’t have time to feel too badly for Dahlia, however, because then it was her in the air, circling between the three rings.

The Gryffindor chasers were bearing down on her, passing the Quaffle swiftly between them. They were superb — one mind, seamlessly anticipating each other’s actions. 

It was Cork who took the first shot. He aimed for the far-right hoop, hoping that Grace’s position over to the left would make the save more difficult.

It _was_ difficult, but not impossible. 

Grace heard cheers from the stand as she threw the Quaffle back to Cork, who she flattered herself looked a little impressed by her save. 

The second came from Potter, who pelted the Quaffle with such force at Grace’s chest that she felt as though she might fly right back through the ring with it. But she caught the red ball, grunting at the impact and successful arresting its momentum, and threw it back. 

Potter raised his eyebrows. 

_That’s right, be surprised_. She grinned with satisfaction. _I’m no delicate snowflake, Potter._

Shots three and four came from Littletree; one was saved easily, the other she felt she had caught by the very tips of her fingers.

_Four out of five. That’s the best score so far._

Her heart soared.

Potter, Cork and Littletree were all smiling now. 

“One more for glory, Jones?” Potter asked, throwing the Quaffle back and forth in his hands. “Give the crowd something to really cheer about?”

She grinned at him. “You got it, boss.”

Potter laughed. “Now that’s what I like to see from my players — a bit of bloody recognition!” 

Cork punched Potter in the arm and cast her an amused glance. “Don’t go calling him boss, Jones! Merlin knows his head’s big enough already!”

She ducked her head in mock apology, feeling very much like whooping for joy. Potter had called her one of his players — did that mean she was on the team? 

“Alright, alright, banter later! Let’s take this last shot, boys!” Potter said ruefully, jerking his head back. 

They flew to half-pitch and circled for a moment, deciding on a play. 

And then in a flash they were hurtling toward her, the Quaffle changing possession so quickly that it was difficult for Grace to tell which of them even had it. They circled each other in a dizzying way. The scarlet of the ball matched the colour of their robes so closely that it was nearly impossible to distinguish. She thought Potter might have it, but… 

It was instinct, more than anything, that told Grace to go right. She felt her body move through the air as though she wasn’t inhabiting it, as though she was watching herself from the outside. 

She saw the Quaffle soaring through the air towards the right hoop, saw her own arms outstretched towards it…

“WELL DONE JONES!” Potter roared appreciatively, zooming over to her and clapping her on the back. “Welcome to the team!”

She blinked, registering the weight of the scarlet ball in her hands. She had caught it. Then she grinned wildly. “Seriously? I’m in?”

“‘Course you’re in!” Cork flew over and thumped her on the back. “That was bloody brilliant!”

“I doubt even Allison Peakes could’ve saved that, and she was keeper for five years.” Corbett Littletree added quietly, a small smile on his face. _Lord he’s young._ Grace couldn’t help but think as she looked over his cherubic face. 

She laughed breathlessly, her cheeks hurting she was grinning so widely. 

“Let’s get back on the ground.” Potter said briskly. “We’ve got tactical matters to discuss, and I imagine your little fanclub will want to give you their best.”

He glanced askance at Asha, Emmeline and Dorcas, looking slightly bemused at their frantic jumping and waving. It was a bit rich for him, Grace privately thought, to be critical of anybody having a fanclub given that his own was such a constant nuisance to the rest of them. 

But Grace kept this to herself, too buzzed to care about the many small hypocrisies of James Potter, who she had to remember was her Captain now, after all. 

She landed and found herself tackled into the ground by her three friends; they went down in a gale of giggles, elbowing and squawking gracelessly as they lay in a heap on the pitch. They were beside themselves; Grace wondered if they had snuck Firewhiskey into the stands (it wouldn’t be a first for Asha, nor Dorcas. Though Emmeline could always be relied upon to discourage such illicit behavior.). 

“Geroff!” Grace struggled vainly from under Asha’s forearm, which had her in what she imagined Asha thought was a hug, but was in fact a sort of semi-affectionate choke-hold. Dorcas had caught her around the middle and was laughing deliriously at Grace’s navel. Emmeline had taken part in the initial assault, but now sat up on her haunches next to them, brushing a grass stain from her skirt fastidiously. Tackling people and rolling about in the grass was hardly Emmeline’s thing, but Grace felt it was the thought that counted. 

“We’re so proud of you!” Asha cried, squeezing tighter and causing Grace to choke a little. “My little girl is growing up! Oh, it warms the heart!”

“Didn’t know you had one of those, Ash.” Said Dorcas slyly, recovering from her giggling fit and sitting cross-legged next to Emmeline. 

Dorcas was a Slytherin, and she had come to them after an eventful term as Asha’s Potions partner. The two had gotten on famously despite their house allegiances (“I’m a bitching potioneer first and a Slytherin second,” she had famously in their first lesson together, to which Asha had briskly replied; “Excellent, help me scrape a pass in this godforsaken subject and I’ll take you to Honeydukes, my treat.” The rest, as they say, was history.).

“Seriously, I can’t breathe!” Grace gasped from under Asha, who reluctantly released her and sat up too. 

“So…” Asha drawled, grinning widely. “You’re a… _sportsperson_ , now, are you?”

Grace swatted her arm. “I’m a person, I now play _one_ sport.”

“That’s how it starts. Admit it, Gracie, you’ve joined the dark side. You’re an _athlete_ now.” Asha’s nose wrinkled in mock-distaste. “Oh, I’ll miss you when you eventually decide you’re too cool to hang out with me.” 

“Never.” Grace grinned. “I mean, you’re a total dork, for sure, but rest assured that I wouldn’t have you any other way. Provides a nice point of contrast against my newfound coolness, don’t you think?” 

Asha shoved her in the arm, smiling haughtily. “You’re such a brat.”

“And you’re such a weirdo.” Grace replied affectionately, picking a blade of dry grass from Asha’s hair. She saw Potter beckoning her over to him and pulled herself to her feet. “Gotta go, Captain’s orders.” 

Asha rolled her eyes. “Just remember, I can always replace you with Dorcas if you make a habit of this leaving-me-for-Potter business.”

“Just what I’ve always wanted,” Dorcas said sarcastically, “to wait in the wings for somebody else to fail, so that I can become the primary friend of a girl who somehow managed to brew a highly dangerous poison instead of a simple cough-relief draught.”

“That’s the spirit Dorc, keep it up and you’ll have taken Grace’s place in my heart by end-of-term.” Asha patted Dorcas lightly on the head, causing the other girl to swipe at her. Grace grinned. Asha had always liked to tease. 

“Hurry UP, Jones!” Potter’s voice bellowed. 

Grace startled slightly, and smiled apologetically at her friends. “Gotta go!”

* * *

_**September 5th, 1975  
Charms Class ** _

_**Remus** _

Today’s lesson saw them practicing the silencing charm on toads. The spell, however, was rather difficult to perform and so the classroom echoed with the sound of loud croaking. 

It was the perfect cover for conversation, and Remus was not surprised nor disappointed to find his friends taking full advantage. 

James had kept up a steady commentary on his new lineup for the upcoming Quidditch season; “Cork and Littletree are on fine form, of course, I knew I could count on them to keep up the practice over the break. Both beaters need a bit of a tune-up, though McGibbon is perhaps a shade more prepared than Locke… and of course Jones is the big surprise, isn’t she? Took out the trials with a near-perfect performance. I’ve got a few minor notes for her, but there’s nothing a couple good practices shouldn’t fix. No doubt we’ll take the Cup handily this year…”

His stomach did a small back-flip. 

“Jones?” Remus fumbled with his wand and poked his toad in the eye. It gave a reproachful croak and made a bid for freedom — hopping off his desk and down the aisles of desks. 

Sirius sniggered as Remus tiredly said “ _accio toad_ ,” his cheeks colouring. 

“Yes,” James said calmly. “Jones. Didn’t you come to the Keeper trials, Moony?”

“Wasn’t feeling well,” Remus muttered, and James didn’t press the matter further. The full moon was in three days, and Remus could already feel the effects of his upcoming transformation at work. 

“Fancy her, don’t you?” Sirius grinned, having successfully silenced his toad after only two attempts — such was his prodigious talent. “Saw you giving her a proper look over during Care of Magical Creatures the other day.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Remus said harshly, unable to account for his sudden ill-temper. “You know I don’t go in for that sort of thing.” 

“ _If you say so_ ,” Sirius said in an infuriating, sing-song voice, making James snigger. 

He glowered at Sirius. “Don’t you have detention with Kettleburn and Moor tonight?”

Sirius groaned, all cheer evaporating. Remus felt a surge of vindictive satisfaction. 

“God, Moony, don’t remind me. I can’t stand the thought of hours practically alone with that shrew.” 

“Oh, come on Pads,” James said bracingly, “it’s only Moor. You two just had a slight misunderstanding.” 

Remus felt that James was somewhat understating the matter. He remembered the hate-filled expressions on Sirius and Asha’s faces as they faced off, wands pointed threateningly. 

* * *

_**September 5th, 1975  
The Forbidden Forest ** _

_**Asha** _

If it had been any other teacher at Hogwarts, they’d have just scrubbed out some cauldrons or written lines. But of course, Asha Moor and Sirius Black had not been caught in their wrongdoing by just _any_ teacher, oh no, they had been caught by Kettleburn. 

Silvanus Kettleburn, whose idea of an appropriate punishment was a midnight stroll in the Forbidden Forest. They were to look for Wiggentree bark (“and do be careful, Wiggentrees are almost always guarded by bowtruckles; they might look harmless but they’ll gouge out your eyes if you’re threatening their territory,” he’d said cheerfully) and turn in an essay on the properties of the Wiggentree by the end of the week. 

And of course, it wasn’t Kettleburn himself who would accompany them. That was too much trouble for the lazy old codger, she didn’t doubt. No, their glorified babysitter was none other than Rubeus Hagrid. 

Hagrid had cheerfully led them beyond the treeline, and Asha had followed very reluctantly. In the dark it was difficult to see much beyond the endless outline of tall, straight tree-trunks. The night air was filled with hooting and other noises, that Asha didn’t care to identify lest she lost her nerve entirely.

What was most vexing was Sirius Black — if he was at all afraid of being in the Forbidden Forest after dark, he didn’t show it. In fact, he looked bored by their excursion, as if he did this sort of thing all the time. He hadn’t even bothered lighting his wand, as though the dark of the forest didn’t particularly bother him. 

She frowned. The first thing she’d done was cast _lumos_. His refusal to do so made her own actions feel like weakness — which was absurd. 

Asha couldn’t help but feel that all of this was bitterly unfair; all she’d done was stand up to Black. If Kettleburn had been keeping an eye on things the way he was supposed to, there wouldn’t have been an incident in the first place. 

She aimed a kick at a nearby tree-root in her bad temper. Black glanced sideways at her, his chiseled features forming a sneer. 

“Problem, Moor?”

“Only you.” She replied shortly, eyes straining to make out anything in the darkness ahead. Hagrid walked a ways apart from them; having told the pair that it might take a while for them to track down any Wiggentrees. 

“Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you. If not for your little episode the other day, I might be in a broom closet with Juniper Potts right about now.”

“That swotty Ravenclaw in the year below?” She raised an eyebrow. “She doesn’t seem like your type.”

Black frowned. “And what’s my type, exactly?”

“Insidious, air-headed, _breathing_ …” 

Black glared at her, momentarily lost for words. He gathered himself, and when he spoke it was in a cold, bitter tone; “At least I _have_ a type to disparage. You’ll have to work on reproducing asexually, I imagine. Ugly thing like you.”

“You really do go blundering straight towards the ‘ugly’ stuff, don’t you?” She thought aloud, noting with some satisfaction that Black’s frustration was mounting. “It’s quite unimaginative, and more than a little shallow, you know.” 

Surprisingly, Black made no reply to this. She watched as his jaw worked for a moment, it seemed that he was trying to get his temper under control. She wondered why he was bothering; it certainly hadn’t been a priority in class the other day. 

“You know what, you’re right.”

She stopped in her tracks. 

“What?” She asked incredulously. “What did you just say?”

He glowered at her, jaw tensing again. “I said… you’re right. About the ‘ugly’ stuff. I shouldn’t do it. It was rubbish to talk about Vanity that way, and you.”

She blinked, shocked. “Thanks.” She said almost automatically. 

“I’m not saying you aren’t an insufferable pain,” Black continued, much to her chagrin. “I still dislike you — heaps, actually, you have loads of annoying qualities—”

“—you’re really terrible at apologies, you know—”

“—like interrupting,” he glared at her meaningfully, before continuing, “and sticking your nose into things that don’t concern you, and acting all superior all the time…”

It transpired that Asha consented to spend about five minutes listening to Sirius Black enumerate her flaws — which she apparently held in abundance.

In fact, by the time Black finally ran out of steam, he had entirely negated any of the good credit he'd garnered by apologising in the first place. 

It was around the time that Black was really building steam complaining about her tea-drinking habits (apparently she took it with too much milk and sugar) that she noticed. It was quiet. 

_Too quiet_. 

She turned around; she couldn’t see Hagrid anymore. There was just a narrow beam of wand-light. And Black. And her. 

Alone. 

“Where’d Hagrid go?”

She hated how her voice broke slightly as she said it. She didn’t want Black to think she was afraid. (She was, of course, stupidly afraid; but that was hardly the point.)

“We must’ve wandered a bit too far,” Black said, eyes darting about. He didn’t seem bored anymore, but kept his voice annoyingly even. 

“Well, which way do we go?” Asha's voice remaineed an octave too high and vaguely hysterical.

Black raised his eyebrows at her. “Are you _afraid_ , Moor?”

“No!” 

She couldn't have sounded less convincing if she tried. 

He looked at her disbelievingly. “Come now, what is it you’re worried about? The dark? Or the monsters?”

Asha rather felt she had a healthy level of fear towards both, but figured that wouldn’t be the best answer to offer. 

“I’m not scared.” 

“Have it your way,” Black muttered, peering into the dark. “ _Lumos_.”

His own wand now cast a beam of light into the darkness, but it did not reveal any sign of Hagrid. 

“Should we call out?” She asked hesitantly, jumping slightly as she heard a twig snap, only to realise it was Black moving forward once more. 

“That would be a very bad idea,” Black said quietly. “There are all sorts living in the Forest that might hear us. Not all of them friendly.”

Asha shivered at the thought of the veritable legions of dark creatures that might descend upon them in the night. 

It was then that she heard a rustling in the trees. Something was moving just beyond their view. It sounded big. 

“Hagrid?” She called softly, hopefully. 

Whatever it was, it made no reply. 

Wordlessly, both she and Black raised their wands in the direction of the noise, exchanging significant glances. 

“We’ll move towards it slowly,” Black said under his breath, “anything unfriendly and we _stupefy_ it at the same time.”

She nodded, her mouth set in a grim line. 

They crept forward, and for a painful moment, there was nothing but the quiet crunch of leaves under their feet and their own heavy breathing. Black couldn’t play off that he wasn’t scared now, too, Asha thought with grim satisfaction as she clutched her wand tight. Right now it was evident that they were both as terrified as each other. 

There was another loud rustle, and without warning something huge burst from the darkness. 

Asha screamed and fell back. Black fell with her, flinging his arms to his face. Their wands soared through the air and landed well out of reach. The light they cast was extinguished, and the forest fell into an almost complete pitch. All Asha could see was the creature. 

She felt terror bloom in her chest as she took in the sight before her —

Reared up on powerful hind-legs was an enormous, jet-black horse. It had glowing red eyes and wings that Asha thought must span several people in length. 

The creature flapped its wings — which looked to be made up of raven’s feathers — and have a terrible, unearthly whinny. 

Asha felt a gust from the sheer power of it. Without thinking, she grabbed Black by the arm, gripping so hard that she was sure she must be hurting him. They scrambled back, scraping their elbows on the twigs and stones that littered the forest floor. Neither one of them seemed to have the impetus to make their legs work properly. Asha knew they needed to run, but she felt quite incapable. She dimly registered that her whole body was shaking. Black didn’t seem to be in any better shape. He seemed to be trying to speak to her, but every time his mouth opened little more than a soundless croak came forth. 

Those eyes… they were terrible. Blood red with a pitiless black center. 

And they were glowing, ever brighter by the moment. That red glow seemed to grow and grow, it was almost hypnotic to look at. Asha found she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

 _You must._ A tiny voice inside her head argued. _You have to._

She must. She had to. 

But she couldn’t. They were just _so_ red. And that little black pool in the center… it was as though she was being pulled into it. The borders of it seemed to blur and though her body was still she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that she was being pulled ever closer. 

She wanted to lean forward, into those fathomless depths… She dimly registered Black mirroring her movements, leaning towards the sinister creature. 

And then —

_Nothing._

* * *

“Blimey! What happened ter you two?” 

Her head was swimming. Hagrid’s gruff voice sounded as though it was coming from very far away. She opened her eyes, and it took a moment before they came properly into focus. The world was a blur of blue-green and fuzzy, vertical lines stretching far overhead… 

_Trees,_ she thought. _I’m looking at trees._

The ruddy, hairy face of Rubeus Hagrid came into view. He peered anxiously at her, and Asha felt herself jerked upright as though she was a child. Her stomach lurched unpleasantly at the unexpected displacement. 

She felt as though she was going to vomit. Her skin prickled unpleasantly, she felt she was covered by tiny, microscopic ants. She dragged her fingernails across her forearms without thinking, but the sensation did not subside. Now she just had angry red, scratches on her arms. Self-inflicted, no less. 

Sirius Black looked approximately as good as she felt. He was pallid, and clammy, and hunched forward with his hands gripping his knees — knuckles white. 

“Can yeh talk?” Hagrid placed a huge, hubcap-sized hand her shoulder. The rough touch grounded her, enough to speak at least. 

“Yes.” Her voice was scratchy like she’d been screaming for hours. But she hadn’t been, _had she?_

“What happened?” Hagrid repeated kindly. “I found yeh both lyin’ here without yer wands.”

“Over there,” Sirius said hoarsely, gesturing over his shoulder to where they’d flung their wands in their utter panic. 

Hagrid removed his hand, and Asha thought that she might fall without the support. Her legs wobbled, but she steadied herself. She would not faint. 

_Well, not again, anyway._

Hagrid retrieved their wands from the undergrowth and handed them back. Asha felt the familiar warm tingle of her wand in her hand and felt her legs steady. That was better. 

“What happened?” Hagrid repeated for the third time.

“Big.” Sirius said scratchily, his face drawn. “Wings…”

“Yes. Big horse.” She nodded vigorously. “Scary.”

Neither one of them seemed up to forming whole sentences, but Hagrid seemed to grasp their meaning fine all the same. 

“Hypnotised us.” Asha shivered, remembering those sinister red eyes. “Did something funny…”

Sirius nodded and shuddered. 

Hagrid was shaking his head, looking pityingly from her to Sirius. “Sounds like you two had a run in with a hippogriff, is all. Got a nasty fright.” 

“No!” Sirius snarled. “Knocked us out!” 

“You both got a shock,” Hagrid said kindly, “I reckon you both tripped and hit your heads, is all. Makes sense, your wands prolly went flyin’ around the same time, I wager.” 

“That isn’t—”

But Hagrid would hear no more talk of giant demon horses. He insisted that he lead them back to the Castle and that they present at the hospital wing for a thorough look-over. “I’ll handle Kettleburn,” he said kindly, “Got a bit of Wiggentree bark back at me hut anyway. Kettleburn don’t need to know where it came from, eh? I’ll tell ‘im it was you two that found it.” They had shakily given Hagrid their thanks — after all, Asha could think of nothing worse than a follow-up excursion into the Forbidden Forest after what had just happened. 

They were pronounced to be in perfect health by Madam Pomfrey and ordered back to their beds with a vial of Pepper-Up Potion each. 

They walked in silence, and Asha got the distinct impression that neither one of them had the foggiest idea what to say. They knew what they saw, and it certainly wasn’t a hippogriff. The question was, what would they do about it now?

Perhaps they could just forget the whole thing? Carry on as normal? It was done, after all. Nothing bad had happened. The creature had clearly been scared off by Hagrid’s approach and hadn’t had time to eat them, or whatever other horrible things it had planned for their unconscious forms. 

They climbed shakily through the portrait hole and into the deserted Common Room. The hearth burned low in the fireplace, little more than molten coal. There was no merry crackling or cheerful voices. Everybody else was asleep. 

Asha couldn’t imagine sleeping. 

She stood frozen at the foot of the stairs to the girl’s dormitory. Black mirrored her actions; he seemed unable to take the first step up the flight towards his bed. He stared at her. She stared back. 

She opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it again.

He did the same, with similar levels of success. 

They looked like goldfish — very frightened goldfish.

The thought must have struck Black at the same time as it had her, because they both suddenly snorted and shook with quiet laughter. 

“We must look like a right couple of loonies,” Black said, the rakish grin she was accustomed to seeing on his face making a reappearance. Something about the familiarity of it was soothing to her.

She smiled back, shaking her head. “Maybe we're mad. Hagrid certainly thought so — maybe we _did_ just imagine it like he said.” 

“No.” Black’s smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. “I know what I saw. _You_ know what you saw.”

She nodded under his imploring gaze, which had turned on her with unexpected intensity.

“‘Course I do. Don’t think I’ll ever forget.”

He relaxed a little and looked away, expression pensive as he mulled something over. “We need to find out what that thing was.”

Once he had said it, it was obvious to Asha. _Of course_ they needed to research that dreadful monster. How was that not her first impulse? How else were they to figure out what it had done to them?

“Where do we start?” She asked, mouth attempting to keep up with her racing mind as ideas flooded it. “The restricted section? I could get a permission slip, but it might take a while to figure out an angle that a teacher would buy. We could always sneak in, though that's more your specialty. But if you think we can pull it off, I’m game. And we could always...”

Asha stopped talking when she realised that Sirius Black was observing her closely, a smirk forming at the corners of his mouth. It pulled the skin of his cheeks in such a way that his impressive jawline was thrown into even sharper relief.

It was a handsome smirk. He was smirking handsomely. At her. 

She frowned, perturbed. “What?”

He gestured at her as if that was explanation enough. “You. Jumping in with both feet.”

“What of it?” She asked challengingly, her frown deepening. 

He shrugged.

“Just didn’t think you were the type.” His grey eyes twinkled. “Delighted to be proven wrong, though, if you’re to be my partner-in-crime.” 

She regarded him warily. “Partner-in-crime?” 

“A temporary posting, I assure you, just until we figure out the mystery of the demon horse.” He said swiftly, clearly eager to dispel any assumptions that he might choose her company freely.

She crossed her arms over her chest and surveying the handsome boy closely.

“I suppose I could ask Grace, she knows all about magical creatures, but...” she faltered, “it’s strange, I have this feeling that we shouldn’t tell anybody else. I don’t know why.”

“So we’ll keep it to ourselves,” Sirius said shortly. “It’s decided. I’ll meet you down here at ten o’clock tomorrow night, okay?” 

Asha nodded. “Ten o’clock. Got it.” 

“Well…” Sirius sighed deeply, taking a step before glancing back at her. “Goodnight, Moor. I’d say sweet dreams, but I both dislike you too much to wish you any and also question the likelihood of sleeping at all after what we’ve just been through.”

“Yeah, yeah, screw you too.” She sighed tiredly and took the steps to her dormitory two at a time. 

Irritatingly, it transpired that Sirius Black was perfectly right. 

Asha did not fall into any sort of slumber before the early hours of the morning, and when she did, she dreamed of pitiless red eyes.


	3. A Darcy, a Wickham, or a Bingley?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evan Rosier makes himself known. Remus Lupin is Not Happy.

“ _I wondered how many people there were in the world who suffered, and continued to suffer, because they could not break out from their own web of shyness and reserve, and in their blindness and folly built up a great distorted wall in front of them that hid the truth.”_

― Daphne du Maurier,  Rebecca

* * *

_**September 6th, 1975** _

_**Breakfast**_

_**Grace** _

Breakfast was a quieter affair than Grace was used to. Usually she would be chattering away with Asha, but this morning her friend closely resembled an exhausted owl, and was eating her toast in a half-wakeful haze. 

“Kettleburn didn’t have you up at all hours looking for flesh-eating toadstools, did he?” Lily asked, peering at Asha with concern. 

Asha chewed her toast slowly, as though she was trying to remember how eating worked. “It was Wiggentree bark, actually.”

“But you’re alright?” Lily pressed. 

Asha nodded sluggishly. “Just tired.”

“You can nap a bit in History of Magic,” Grace said kindly, patting her friend on the shoulder, “It’s my turn to take notes, anyway.” 

Asha nodded gratefully, her eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. It was most unlike her, Grace reflected, to have a sleepless night. Though she supposed it happened to everyone now and then. 

Sensing that further conversation would be futile while Asha was in such a zombie-like state, Grace refocused on her porridge. They fell into companionable silence, Grace only occasionally venturing to add to the conversation Lily and Mary were having about the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, who they were due to meet tomorrow.

Their peace was interrupted by the approach of a Slytherin seventh-year. Grace couldn’t remember ever seeing him before. 

Yet, now that she _had_ seen him, Grace thought he would be impossible to forget. 

He had brown eyes; almond-shaped and brooding, set below a heavy brow which dominated his strangely timeless face. His straight black hair ended just above his shoulders, and there was a faint shadow of stubble on his jaw. Grace could make out the outline of some impressively defined biceps underneath his uniform, though he had a slight build overall. His Slytherin green tie had been done untidily, and the general state of his uniform conveyed a sense of artful neglect. 

Everything about him was effortlessly askew. Many students looked sharply at the boy as he approached, but he didn’t even spare a glance for them. 

He was looking directly at _her_. Grace’s breath caught as his dark eyes met her blue ones. 

He extended an arm. Grace blinked. 

“You dropped this.” His voice was low and husky, and Grace got the distinct impression he wasn’t in the habit of using it needlessly. She looked down at the object that he had offered her and her eyes widened. 

It was _Wuthering Heights_. 

“Thanks.” She took the book from him slowly, as though interacting with a highly dangerous animal. 

Without a word he turned to leave, apparently indifferent to the many glaring eyes trained on him. The middle of the Gryffindor table was hardly friendly territory for a Slytherin seventh-year. 

Before he had gotten very far, however, Grace called out to him; “Hey!”

He turned and raised an eyebrow at her. 

“You’ve written in it.” She said, and it was perfectly true. She let the book fall open to reveal tiny black words crammed into the margins, and sometimes between the lines, of almost every page. There was scarcely a single space that hadn't been embellished with his scratchy, slanted handwriting. 

“Just made some notes.” He said elusively. 

She scanned the words written underneath Cathy’s most famous line; ‘I am Heathcliff’ —

 _I’m all for a bold declaration now and then but this is beyond extreme— talk about a relationship founded on problematic co-dependence.’_ — and rounded on him, wide-eyed. “You’ve read this before?” 

His lips quirked upward in a slight smirk. “Once or twice.” 

Offering no further explanation, the boy returned to the Slytherin table. 

Wordlessly, Grace reopened the novel in front of her, reading not the text itself, but the many notes which now peppered its pages. It quickly became apparent that this boy — whoever he was — had an incredible knowledge of literature and its conventions. She cast her eyes over insight after insight, finding herself awed and impressed by each of them in turn. 

“D’you know who he is? His name?” Grace asked Asha tentatively, dragging her eyes away from _Wuthering Heights_ most unwillingly and nodding towards the Slytherin table. 

Asha shook her head, in her fatigue she had clearly failed to pay proper attention to Grace and the strange Slytherin boy. She was still chewing her toast as though it were carpet. “No. He’s in seventh-year, isn’t he? Certainly looks old enough.”

“Yeah…” Grace said absentmindedly, staring his way.

“Evan Rosier.” Lily said curtly, gazing at Grace with a funny expression on her face. “He hangs out with Sev sometimes.”

“Evan Rosier.” She repeated softly, blushing as the dark-haired boy glanced up from the Slytherin table and caught her staring. His lip twitched almost imperceptibly before he returned to conversation with his housemates.

Grace didn’t miss Lily sending Asha a significant glance, nor Asha peering at her as though she were a particularly tricky exam question which she did not know how to answer. She could imagine their thoughts well enough without allowing them the opportunity to be voiced. She resolved to ignore her friends. 

What she _did_ miss was Remus Lupin glaring a hole in the back of Evan Rosier’s head, frightful anger overtaking his usually neutral features. Grace did not notice how Remus’ eyes narrowed to slits, nor how his gaze followed her from the Great Hall when she at last saw fit to leave it, head still bowed over her novel. 

Grace had eyes for only one thing — the many clever words of Evan Rosier. 

* * *

_**September 6th, 1975** _

_**Library, 11am** _

_**Asha** _

It was begrudgingly agreed upon that they were not yet at the point of desperation that sneaking into the restricted section in the dead of night called for— a course of action which Sirius had labelled “the fun plan”. 

Instead, Asha reasoned, they would be better served by starting their search in a more legitimate manner. 

She had a notion that Madam Pince would know where to start. She just needed to come up with a way of asking the stern Librarian if she knew anything about a demon horse, preferably without uttering the phrase “demon horse”. 

They needed a more innocuous description to present, and they needed to refine their own search parameters. Asha rather doubted that they would identify the creature by searching for ‘terrifying hell beast’ in various book indexes. 

Asha had plucked her quill from her bag and smoothed down a piece of parchment. They needed a list. 

She fucking _loved_ lists. 

“Right, so, known characteristics of the demon horse. Go.”

“Hypnotism.” Sirius said boredly, eyeing the parchment with utter disdain. Asha had never discussed the matter with him, but she felt fairly certain that Sirius Black was _not_ a lists guy. 

She nodded and scrawled this down on the parchment. She eyed Sirius expectantly, waiting for him to continue naming properties. 

He rolled his eyes, but acquiesced. “Flight — remember those godawful wings.

“Yep.” Asha paused thoughtfully. “But they could be vestigial, you know, for decoration.”

Sirius’s face lit up with incredulity. “ _Vestigial wings?_ ”

“I just don’t want anything to confound our search — false information could set us back!” Said Asha defensively, cheeks flushed. 

“There was nothing _decorative_ about that beast,” Sirius said darkly, and Asha was grudgingly inclined to agree. 

“Alright. What other characteristics?” 

“Black.”

“Well, its species could come in many colours. I don’t know if it's wise to include colour in our search parameters.”

“Seeing as you’ve clearly already decided how you want to do this,” Sirius said through clenched teeth, “why don’t _you_ just write up the list and give it to me? Better yet, why don’t I just start pulling books I think will help, and you can do the same, and we can get on with happily not talking to each other?”

“That may save us some time.” Asha admitted, enjoying how infuriated her recent-nemesis-turned-grudging-ally appeared. “But don’t start pulling books. The whole point of working together is that we make sure we’re not doubling up on our reading. We need to keep track of what we’ve already searched. And asking Madam Pince will save some time if she agrees to pull the relevant resources for us, I’m sure of it.” 

“Fine.” Huffed Sirius. “Hurry up and write your bloody list then.”

Asha complied with this demand in silence, quickly jotting down everything she could recall about the horrible horse and then passing it to Sirius for proof-reading. He nodded, satisfied that everything of substance was there. 

She went to Madam Pince and handed her the parchment, and explained that she was looking for books which might describe the creature. 

“It’s part of a project for Care of Magical Creatures. Black and I are doing it to make up some marks — we’ve been lagging behind and we don’t want to fail our O.W.L.S.” She had said blithely when Madam Pince had eyed her in thinly veiled suspicion. “Professor Kettleburn said we’re to write up a report on a creature the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures classifies as XXXX or above. He gave us this description and said we’re to identify the creature ourselves — like a fun little research challenge. Can you recommend us a good place to start?” 

The least credible part of her story was the bit where Sirius Black cared about his grades, but Madam Pince seemed to accept her lie all the same. She pulled a dozen books and delivered them to the table where Sirius was now lying flat on his back along a bench, eyes glazed as they stared up at the ceiling, looking as though he might die from boredom. 

He sat up, eyes widening in mild incredulity as he watched Madam Pince set down a pile of books on magical creatures before bustling away to scold a first-year Ravenclaw for eating in the library. “You got her to help.” 

“‘Course I did.” Asha said, cracking open the book closest to her and beginning her search of the index. “I’m not as useless as you suppose, Black.” 

“Perhaps not.” Sirius mused, languidly plucking another book from the pile and flicking through it. The corner of his mouth quirked upwards. “Still annoying, though.” 

She shot him a look, glowering as she returned her gaze to the page.

They worked in companionable silence for two hours, finding no mention of anything resembling the demon-horse. Asha turned up her nose when a group of Hufflepuff girls settled nearby, shooting furtive glances at Sirius. Their low giggles grated on her nerves, though she tried to remember that they were young, and successfully restrained herself from snapping at them.

She focused on the words in front of her, but something was making them wriggle unpleasantly on the page. She blinked, but the letters continued their nauseating dance. 

The edges of her vision began to blur and she swayed in her seat. Next to her, Sirius gave a sickened groan. She turned to him and saw that he looked just as queasy as she felt. 

“You too?” Sirius asked, alarmed and nauseated in equal measure.

She merely nodded and gripped his shoulder to steady herself. Her head was swimming and she felt as though she was going to drop at any moment. 

Sirius did not shrug off her hand as she thought he might, instead he grabbed onto her too, fingers digging into her knee in a vain attempt to stay upright. 

The pain of it brought Asha back into her body a little. She squeezed Sirius’ shoulder hard and saw some clarity come back into his sickened expression. 

They sat there, pallid and nauseous and barely upright, for what felt like an age. Neither felt able to move, or call for help. They simply sat frozen in place while the wave of sickness crashed over them. 

Slowly, Asha felt the roiling in her gut receding. Her feet felt more firmly planted on the ground, and her vision cleared a little. She took a breath and felt Sirius' shoulder relax slightly under her grip. 

“Are you alright, Miss Moor?” 

Asha blinked, her vision clearing fully now. A pleasant, broad face came into focus. She was looking into a pair of brilliantly yellow eyes. She had only ever met one person with eyes like that.

She swiftly retracted her hand from Sirius’ shoulder, and felt his hand recoil from her knee as though she were a venomous toadstool. 

Her voice quavered. “Caradoc?” 

The boy with the yellow eyes grinned. “The one and only.” 

There was a huff and Asha’s gaze was drawn over Caradoc’s shoulder, where a tall, blond-haired boy stood. 

“Hi, Benjy.” She said shakily. 

“You look a bit peaky.” Benjy said worriedly, stepping past Caradoc and pressing a hand to Asha’s clammy forehead. Her face flushed at the feeling of Benjy’s soft palm pressed against her skin. 

“Hmm. Clammy.” He muttered to himself, peering into her face as if trying to divine some sort of answer from her features — which were at present arranged in an expression of utter befuddlement. 

She was vaguely aware of Sirius snorting in contempt somewhere to her left. 

“Dearborn. Fenwick.” She heard him say shortly to the boys in front of her. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer if you kept your unwashed mitts off _my_ face.” 

“That’s fine, Black.” Benjy Fenwick said smoothly, his eyes were still firmly fixed on Asha. “Nobody cares if _you’re_ ill.” 

“Oh, but poor Miss Moor is _so_ fragile.” Sirius scoffed. She turned to glare at him, which did exactly nothing beyond making her feel a little better. 

Caradoc Dearborn laughed in a great, booming voice. “Don’t know about that, mate.” 

Asha felt a surge of affection for Caradoc. He was a year above her; a charismatic, warm Hufflepuff with a certain talent for hitting things with a club (despite being on the worst-performing Quidditch team in the school, Caradoc Dearborn was widely regarded to be the best beater in the league). He was friendly, and funny, and brash in a charming sort of way. 

And those eyes. Those strange, yellow eyes. Caradoc Dearborn had presence, alright. Her father might've called it gravitas. Her mother undoubtedly would have said 'machismo', and probably would've winked for good measure.

Asha couldn’t remember ever having much to do with him, though. A conversation here and there, perhaps.

Benjy Fenwick she knew even less about than Caradoc. He was a good-looking Ravenclaw with tawny-blond hair and a tan which frankly confused Asha (it was September in the Scottish highlands, a tan did not make sense). Again, they’d spoken in passing, but Asha hadn’t been under the impression that they were friends. 

It was surprising, therefore, to find both boys so focused on her in this moment. She’d just come over a bit faint, as far as _they_ knew. 

“I can take you to the hospital wing.” Benjy said kindly. 

“No, no, allow me!” Caradoc said, eyes bright with mischief as he jostled Benjy partly out of the way. “I’m much stronger than scrawny Benjy, here. I could carry you.”

Asha’s face burned at the thought of being carried by anyone — she privately feared she would be too heavy.

“No, no! I’m fine.” She said hastily. “Just a bit of a fainting spell.”

Caradoc smiled broadly at her. 

“Well, if you need anything…”

“... then for the love of god, don’t ask Caradoc.” Benjy finished. “I’m happy to help, though. Anytime. Well, not _anytime_ , like the middle of the night is probably not convenient for either of us, or during an exam, for instance. But, y’know, most of the time, I’m happy to help.”

Benjy descended into silence, looking exceedingly flustered. Next to him, Caradoc was grinning like the cat who got the cream. 

“Er, okay.” Asha said awkwardly. “Well, I have to study now, so...”

She gestured to the pile of books in front of her. 

“Right. Didn’t mean to bother you.” Benjy said quickly, ducking his head and turning to leave. He paused by the library entrance and cast his gaze back to her before tentatively adding; “See you later, maybe?” 

Confused, she nodded. 

“I kind of _did_ mean to bother you, a bit.” Caradoc said with a wink, before following Benjy out. Asha opened her mouth to reply, but found she was too flustered. A lump had formed in her throat. 

Sirius’ eyes narrowed as he watched Benjy and Caradoc’s retreat from the library, before he rounded on her.

“This is a problem.” 

She didn’t have to ask to know he was talking about the strange sickness. It couldn't be mere coincidence that they had both been struck ill at the exact same time. She merely nodded. “I know. Do you think… well, _should_ we go to the hospital wing?”

“No.” Sirius said definitively. She figured this would be his response. 

She couldn’t explain it, this pit in her stomach at the idea of telling people about their encounter with the demon-horse. She had this sense that something bad would happen if they did. Judging by the grave expression on Sirius’ face, he felt the same. As it was, they had hardly managed to get the words out with Hagrid.

And he had not believed them.

There was a moment of silence as she and Sirius sluggishly returned to their research. Asha had just found her place in _European Monsters and How To Survive Them_ when Sirius said in a would-be indifferent voice; “Didn’t know you had a fanclub, Moor.” 

She studied him closely for a moment, his aristocratic features were curiously devoid of affect. His silver eyes were focused on the page in front of him — but he had definitely spoken. 

“You’re one to talk.” She finally replied, nodding at the nearby gaggle of Hufflepuffs who were eyeing Sirius hopefully. 

Sirius seemed to have been quite oblivious to their presence. He looked over at the group with an expression of mild surprise, before shrugging and returning to his book – _Dangerous Beasts for the Daring Dilettante_.

“None of them take your fancy?” Asha asked in mock-pity. 

Sirius looked up, considering her coolly for a moment. He then shortly replied; “The chase isn’t fun if the gazelle is already half-dead.” 

Asha snorted, unsurprised that Sirius Black would view things in such a way. “So you want girls to act all aloof and hard-to-get? Isn’t that a touch... artificial?”

“Isn’t that just what you did with Fenwick and Dearborn?” Sirius shot back, before adopting a high, girlish voice she supposed was intended as an impression of her; “ _Oh, sorry boys, I’m busy studying…_ ”

“I _am_ busy studying.” She glared meaningfully. “We _both_ should be.”

“Acting like you’ve never noticed them before…” 

“I _haven’t_ noticed them!” 

“Oh please, Dearborn’s about as subtle as a brick to the face. I saw him chatting you up on the Hogwarts Express when term started.”

“He was just asking about my summer.” Asha frowned, though now she came to think of it, it was unusual for Caradoc to seek her out like that. 

“Fenwick asked to borrow a quill the other day.”

“He lost his.” Asha said defensively, though she was now struggling to convince herself that these interactions were as inconsequential as she first supposed. 

“And he chose to ask _you_ instead of the twenty other Ravenclaws stood right there?” Sirius smirked unpleasantly. “Come on, Moor. You’re not that stupid.” 

She frowned and twirled her quill nervously between her fingers. The prospect of boys and dating was more than enough to make her stomach flip - as were most things she had no idea about.

Then, sharply, she looked back at Sirius. “Wait, how do you know all this, anyway? Have you been watching me?” 

“Hah!” Sirius let out a short, bark-like laugh at the thought before replying scornfully; “ _That’s_ rich. No, Moor, I haven’t been watching you.” 

“You seem to be spending a lot of time prying into my business, is all.” 

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Sirius adopted an indifferent, superior expression, which his features carried off all too well. “Fenwick and Dearborn are just obvious. I’d rather not join your queue of admirers, you see, I just _hate_ long lines.” 

She scoffed. “Like I’d have you.”

“So we’re in perfect agreement.”

“Seems that way.”

“Get back to work, then.”

“ _You_ get back to work.” She retorted petulantly, only just stopping herself from crossing her arms in a huff. That, she thought, would probably seem a touch too juvenile.

“We’re not _five_ , Moor.” Sirius scoffed, apparently sharing in this opinion. “Just shut up and get to reading, please. I want this nightmare over with as soon as possible.”

 _Me too_ , she thought bitterly. _Me too._

* * *

_**September 6th, 1975** _

_**Library, Evening** _

_**Grace** _

Many of the notes that Evan had written were commentaries on the novel - ‘ _I like this_ ’ , ‘ _what a jerk, right?_ ’ , ‘ _waiting for this phrase to come back_ ’. 

She read a passage which he had underlined, one with which she was already very familiar, wherein Heathcliff visits a dying Cathy; " _You teach me now how cruel you've been—cruel and false. Why did you despise me? Why did you betray your own heart, Cathy? I have not one word of comfort. You deserve this. You have killed yourself. Yes, you may kiss me, and cry; and wring out my kisses and tears: they'll blight you—they'll damn you. You loved me—then what right had you to leave me? What right—answer me—for the poor fancy you felt for Linton? Because misery and degradation, and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, you, of your own will, did it. I have not broken your heart—you have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine. So much the worse for me that I am strong. Do I want to live? What kind of living will it be when you—oh, God! would you like to live with your soul in the grave?_ " 

Underneath he had simply written; ‘ _Tough but fair._ ’.

Grace laughed out loud, drawing glares from a nearby group of Ravenclaws. After wincing apologetically and offering a small, sheepish smile to them, she turned back to Evan’s many charming words. 

Some of the notes, she found, weren’t about the book at all. 

‘ _Do you like tripe?_ ’ he had written, ‘ _Only, I saw you eating it at dinner the other day, and I didn’t think anybody liked tripe. But then I noticed that you were reading Pride and Prejudice, and thought that maybe that you were just caught up in the story. If you_ **_are_** _a secret tripe lover, please don’t bother ever speaking to me again - the fact that you’re a Gryffindor I can handle, but we all have our limits. In any case, the question remains - are you looking for a Darcy, a Wickham, or a Bingley?_ ’ 

There were many questions, but Grace had no way of giving her reply. _Unless…_

She dug through her bag and pulled out a small paperback - _The Catcher in the Rye_ by J.D. Salinger. It was a favourite of hers. She pulled out her quill and scribbled on the title page; ‘ _Hey there, Holden Caulfield, thought you might like this one._ ’ and slowly began to annotate the well-worn pages for him, explaining her distaste for tripe, her indifference to Bingley, and her loathing of muggle sportscar racing. She wrote many witty things about the novel - things she imagined he’d enjoy, for she already felt like she knew him. How could she not, having read so many of his thoughts? 

' _A Wickham is right out,_ ' she wrote, _'for all of the obvious reasons. It feels so cliché to pick Darcy, though! But Bingley just doesn't do it for me. Too nice. To genteel. What's the point of a person so determined to approve of everything? So, by default then, I **must** pick Darcy. Improper pride and all.' _

She didn’t really notice the library emptying of people, she was so engrossed in her work. She annotated her old favourite exhaustively, her writing quickly becoming as cramped as his had been. When Grace had first seen his words squeezed between printed lines she had wondered why he had written so much, but now she understood - there was just so much to _say_. 

It was only when the lights went out that Grace realised that Madam Pince must have closed the library with her still inside. She was easy to overlook, she supposed, tucked into a corner, scribbling fervently. 

Cursing, she shoved her things into her bag and slung it across her shoulders. She was breaking curfew - not a good look for a prefect. Too bad she couldn’t pass off that she had patrols tonight — her first rotation wasn’t until tomorrow. 

Creeping along passages, startling at every little noise she heard, Grace wondered at how Potter and Black could do this so often. Her heart was hammering loudly in her chest at the thought that she would be caught. If she snuck around half as often as they seemed to, she’d have a nervous breakdown. 

She thought about muffling the sound of her footsteps, but couldn’t for the life of her remember the incantation. She merely stared at her feet for a long moment, frowning. 

An amused voice reached her ears. “Something the matter with your orthotics, Miss Jones?” 

Grace’s head shot up, but she visibly relaxed as soon as she saw who it was. Remus Lupin. She breathed a sigh of relief. She very much doubted he would give her a detention for staying too late at the library, what with all the mischief he and his mates got up to. 

“No orthotics, just trying to remember how to muffle my footsteps.” Grace smiled. “Though it seems the cat is out of the bag, now. I’ve been caught red-handed.”

“Out of bed after curfew, perish the thought.” Remus said lightly, a wicked grin brightening his tired face. “I myself have _never_ been known to do such a thing.”

Grace chuckled, easily picking up on the irony. “Oh yes, you’re a very good boy, aren’t you? The swottiest prefect I ever did see.”

“ _You’d_ know all about being a swotty prefect, I suppose.” Remus smiled, inching his head towards her. “Case in point — you’re terrible at breaking rules. Can’t even sneak from the Library to the Common Room without getting caught.”

“It’s harder than it looks, I’ll have you know!” Said Grace indignantly, and then added under her breath; “If only I remembered the spell…”

“If you _had_ remembered the spell, which is _taceto pedia_ , by the way,” Remus said in amusement, “you still would’ve walked straight into me — you weren’t checking corners, were you?” 

_Checking corners?_

“Oh, right.” She frowned. “That might’ve helped, yeah.” 

He smiled at her, and said, quite warmly; “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll get better with practice.”

“I’m hoping not to make a habit of it, actually.”

Remus shrugged, still smiling. “As you wish.”

“So, should I expect a detention from my fellow Gryffindor prefect?” Grace asked, grinning. “Or can I rely on some good, old-fashioned nepotism to see me through? Us swotty prefects surely have to stick together.” 

Remus chuckled, eyes sparkling pleasantly as he considered her. “You know, I really don’t think there’s any harm in a bit of favoritism now and then. Builds house unity, or so I hear.”

“I hear that too.” Grace said quickly. “And you’d hate to be accused of lacking proper Gryffindor spirit, right?” 

“Right.” Remus replied, he looked at her a moment longer, as if weighing his next words carefully. “I’ll walk you back to the Common Room? It’ll be my act of charity for the day; seeing as though you’re so pathetically rubbish at sneaking around.”

Grace grinned before adopting an expression of mock-offence. “Why Remus Lupin, I do believe you are being cruelly patronising of my rule-breaking abilities.”

“My deepest apologies.” Remus inched his head solemnly, which made Grace want to laugh out loud. “No doubt you are the finest criminal mastermind Hogwarts has ever seen, and being caught by me is nothing but a cunning ruse.”

“Naturally.” Grace played along, feeling more entertained than she had in ages – Remus was _funny_. “You’ve dropped your guard. Now I can put into effect some brilliant scheme. Pretend I was specific there, I can’t come up with an example of impressive skullduggery on the spot.” 

“I rescind all criticism.” He spoke in a serious tone, but Grace enjoyed the incongruous, mischievous twinkle of his green eyes. “Please allow me to escort you to the Common Room, supreme mischief-maker. If only so that I may see a master at work.”

“Alright.” Grace breathed, feeling a bit more relaxed now that she didn’t have to skulk halfway across the castle on her own. Remus was right — she wasn’t any good at this. “I’d enjoy the company, even if you are taking the mickey out of me.” 

“Feel free to return serve, I won’t take it personally.” Remus said as they started up a stone staircase, which changed just as they cleared the landing. “I’m certainly used to it, what with the company I keep.”

“Ah, yes. I suppose I _should_ use you to practice, then, seeing as I’m going to be spending a lot more time with Potter.”

“Yes, I believe congratulations are in order — James went on at length about your performance on the pitch yesterday.” He paused in deliberation, and then added; “And I am always happy for you to practice on me.” 

Grace blushed and stared at her shoes, beaming all the while. “Thanks.”

Grace Jones was not a stupid girl, she knew what flirting was. She was not so self-critical that she couldn’t identify when a boy was showing her interest — though she had to admit she was surprised to have drawn the interest of this _particular_ boy. Remus Lupin was notoriously reserved. He’d never dated anyone else at the school. Nor had he ever expressed the desire to date, or flirt, or so much as peck a girl on the cheek before. Not that she knew of, anyway. 

She’d liked _him_ , of course. But she had never allowed herself to develop high hopes. Grace was many things — chiefly, a realist. For two years the dream of Remus Lupin had been little more than a pleasant fantasy, a distraction from boring classes. In her ruthless pragmatism, she had not allowed her feelings to take root – it had remained a trifling crush.

Yet now...

Remus was walking with his hands in his pockets, and he kept on glancing over at her. Perhaps he thought he was being subtle, but it seemed rather obvious to Grace. “May I ask what’s tempted you to stay out so late?” He asked. 

Grace shrugged offhandedly. “I was just reading.”

Inexplicably, this response turned Remus badly sour. His light, teasing manner evaporated in an instant; and now Grace was fixed with an angry glare. 

“Rosier’s book?” He demanded sharply. 

“It’s my book, actually,” Grace corrected him, eyebrows raised in surprise at his sudden change in demeanor, “Rosier just, er, borrowed it for a bit.” 

“ _Borrowed it_.” Remus repeated, his voice soaked in unwarranted derision. “That’s a nice way of putting it. Stole it and vandalised it, more like.”

“He’s actually got some interesting things to say, I’m glad he took it.” Grace said quietly, monitoring Remus’ dangerous expression. “I never would have known how clever he is, if he hadn’t.”

Remus looked for a moment as though he was going to yell at her, but seemed to hold himself back at the last moment. He drew breath sharply and Grace had the distinct impression that if she didn’t choose her words carefully, Remus would end up flying off the handle completely. As it was, he was being extremely rude. 

“Do you two not get on?” Grace asked tentatively, causing Remus to freeze on the spot. His face was set and unreadable. 

“You can make it to the end of the corridor without incident, I trust.” Remus said curtly, clearly unwilling to take even a single step further in her company. “Goodnight, Jones.” 

“Goodnight, Rem-”

But before she could even fully form the words, he had started back the way they came. He rounded a corner, and vanished from sight. 

Her face set as she eyed the spot where Remus had just stood in shell-shocked anger.

His departure had been so abrupt, she felt like her brain was only just catching up to processing everything he’d said. She glared into empty space. 

She hadn’t done anything wrong, after all. She was allowed to speak to whoever she liked. Who was _he_ to snap at her and storm off? Certainly not her boyfriend. Not now, nor ever, after such garbage behaviour. She had better things to do then reassure Remus — _who she wasn’t even dating_ — that she liked him better than Evan Rosier. She’d only told him she was reading what Rosier had written, after all. It wasn’t like she was marrying him, for goodness sake.

And what would it matter to him if she _was_ , anyway? He'd had years to approach her, but decided that now – the very moment that somebody else finally realised she existed – was the right time? And then he had the gall to be mad at _her_?

Round and round her thoughts swirled as she crawled through the portrait hole, though they only served to make her feel angrier, and more determined to get her copy of _The Catcher in the Rye_ to Evan Rosier. 

She’d slip it to him in the hallway, she decided at last. It would be too conspicuous to do it at breakfast. This way, she could pretend that she’d just bumped into him and keep walking. 

The prospect of Rosier reading what she’d written for him served to soothe her jagged nerves. She wondered vaguely how long it would take him to reply once she got the book to him — would he even reply at all?

 _Of course he will._ She reassured herself, slipping beneath her coverlet and punching her pillow into a more comfortable shape. She didn’t know why she had so much faith in the boy, but something about having read his notes on _Wuthering Heights_ made her feel as though she knew him intimately. Without having ever really spoken to Evan Rosier, Grace felt that she could trust him completely. 

Nuzzling into the cotton of her pillowcase, Grace felt a smile trace her lips.

What did Remus and his moods matter, when she had just met somebody as wonderful as Evan?

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly I must thank you all exhaustively for any kudos or commentary that you might've left on this story. I am enjoying writing it so much, more than I have enjoyed writing anything in ages. The encouragement so soooo appreciated. 
> 
> My take on Evan Rosier is very heavily inspired by Jess Mariano of Gilmore Girls, though don't take Jess' character arc to be any sort of blueprint for Evan's trajectory. I've got plans for him. 
> 
> It was delightful to write Caradoc Dearborn. I was unsure about how much time to give him moving forward, but I think I will definitely make space for some good old Caradoc content. 
> 
> How are we feeling about the characterisation of the canon characters? Remus and Sirius obviously are the ones I'm most concerned with, I'm feeling comfortable with arrogant, out-of-touch-with-his-emotions Sirius but Remus has been harder to get right. There's literally one scene of him as a teenager in the books so I'm taking some liberties. I imagine teen Remus to be quite repressed and therefore prone to shut down / have an inappropriate outburst when his limits are tested. He knows what he wants but he feels he doesn't deserve it but also can't stand the idea of anybody else having it. Messy.


	4. Boggarts: spooking students since 1975

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson; feat some avoidable trauma and a bit of rubbish teaching.

_“The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”_

_― Franklin D. Roosevelt_

* * *

**_September 7th, 1975_ **

**_Defence Against the Dark Arts_ **

**_Grace_ **

Grace had endured four differently problematic Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers during her time at Hogwarts. 

First there had been Dustin Nosebrook, who was a terrible bore and almost never let them practice spells in class. Then there had been Lucinda Smythe, who had instructed them haphazardly in the use of defensive magic but totally failed to prepare them for the written exam (which she herself was in charge of setting). After Lucinda had been Eric—no, _Elkwood_ Rose, who waxed poetical about ‘the good old days’ when he was an Auror but never actually taught them anything useful. Last, and worst, had been Jonas Polanski — he enjoyed yelling at children, and used his brief posting at Hogwarts to satisfy these questionable inclinations. Very little teaching happened around this, and Grace had taken savage delight in watching Polanski pack his things at the end of last year — never to return to Hogwarts again. 

This year’s Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher stood in front of them with her hands placed firmly on her hips, her thin lips forming a distasteful pout as she looked down upon them all with narrow, critical eyes. 

It was not a promising first impression. 

The woman had long black hair that ended at her waist, and there were streaks of grey throughout it. She wore a high-collared shirt under her sweeping blue robes, and Grace could see little robins embroidered at her wrists. If she hadn’t looked so stroppy, Grace might’ve thought her cool.

She spoke. 

“My name is Professor Invidia Fancourt, celebrated Astronomer Perpetua Fancourt’s _little sister_.” 

The woman — Professor Fancourt — said this with evident bitterness. 

Grace rather wondered at why she had bothered to bring her sister up at all, when it clearly pained her so. She glanced sideways at Asha, whose eyes had widened in alarm. 

“...And while I have not _personally_ invented the lunascope, you will find that I am quite the expert when it comes to the Dark Arts.” She glowered impressively around at the class, who remained uncomfortably silent. “Why, by the age of twenty-five I had produced a fully _corporeal_ patronus.” 

“ _Lucky us_.” James muttered under his breath. Sirius and Peter snickered next to him, and Remus gave an amused half-smirk. 

Remus, who Grace didn’t like anymore and wasn’t speaking to. 

James said something else which Grace didn’t fully hear, but she was sure she caught the phrases _‘illegal animagus’_ and _‘then we’ll talk’_ , before Remus shushed him. The green-eyed boy then cast a look around to see if they had been overheard, his eyes widening as they met Grace’s. Grace smiled wanly — though she knew she must’ve looked very cold indeed, because Remus baulked at her and shifted uneasily in his seat. She turned her attention back to Professor Fancourt. Whatever they had been discussing, it was no business of hers. They were not _her_ friends. 

They could keep their secrets, for all she cared. 

“We will spend this term reviewing your knowledge of dark creatures, which commonly come up in O.W.L. examinations.” 

Grace perked up at this. She was fascinated with the study of all creatures, even dark, scary ones. Next to her, Asha was resting her chin on her palm, her eyes wandering towards the classroom window and the open blue sky beyond. Unlike Grace, she did not appear to have mustered any enthusiasm from Professor Fancourt’s announcement.

The elder witch ploughed on in an authoritative voice. “After the Christmas break, we will begin our study of O.W.L. level curses and counter-curses, which I expect will take no less than four months of hard work on your behalves to master. We will then commence a general but thorough review of all you have learned over the past four years, prior to your examinations.”

The low, dry voice of Severus Snape drifted from somewhere near the back of the classroom; “Professor, do _werewolves_ ever come up in the O.W.L. examinations?”

Professor Fancourt looked taken aback, no doubt she had expected that specific questions regarding content would come far later in the year. Severus Snape, however, was obsessed with the Dark Arts, to the point where Grace felt certain that Severus himself already knew the answer to the question he had asked. 

He was testing her. 

“Well…” Professor Fancourt breathed, totally thrown off-kilter. “Well, I’m not actually sure, Mr…?”

“Snape.”

“— _Snivellus_ —” she caught Black hissing under his breath, as though correcting Snape on his own name. 

“Well, Mr Snape, I will look into it and get back to you. Of course, _Perpetua_ would probably know the answer off the top of her head, wouldn’t she?” Professor Fancourt said with a slightly hysterical laugh. 

Grace and Asha exchanged alarmed expressions. They were not the only ones to do so.

“ _Merlin’s sake_ , not another dud teacher…” Asha groaned quietly. Grace stifled a giggle in her hand and whispered back; “Well, at least we’ll get another one next year. These curses have their upsides.”

Professor Fancourt seemed to gather her composure after a moment and straightened her back before once more addressing the class. “No matter. Today will be a practical lesson — I have located a Boggart and intend to instruct you in its correct removal.” 

There was a great deal of excited tittering at this. Practical lessons were always well-received, with the exception of Potions, which was by its nature always practical (but in a soul-cleaving, disappointing sort of way, as Asha would doubtless point out). 

As a Muggle-born, Grace had no notion of what a Boggart even was. She noticed the way that Asha sat up straighter, however, and took that to be a good indication that this was going to be an exciting class. 

“Follow me.” Professor Fancourt said imperiously, before sweeping towards the exit. 

Scrambling to collect their things, the Gryffindor and Slytherin students rushed after Professor Fancourt, whose long strides led them progressively lower and lower. Grace thought they must be heading to the dungeons. 

They stopped short, however, and were led towards the kitchens. 

Grace had never lingered on this level before, having no need; but she knew from her Hufflepuff friends that their common-rooms and the kitchens practically shared a common wall. 

Professor Fancourt pirouetted in place and faced a portrait of a bowl of fruit. She rounded her shoulders and attempted to use her body to block the portrait from view. Leaning over it, she did something to the painting that Grace couldn’t quite see. 

She heard a giggle, which she thought couldn’t possibly have come from Professor Fancourt, and when the Professor stood back there was a door handle protruding from the bowl of fruit. A door handle that Grace was quite certain had been a pear only moments ago. 

Professor Fancourt looked at them with an expression of utmost smugness, clearly she enjoyed the opportunity to show off her knowledge of the Castle. 

Peter Pettigrew seemed to find this funny and sniggered into his hand. Grace could see smirks on the faces of Black, Potter and Lupin.

_Stupid Lupin._

Professor Fancourt led the class into the kitchen, which Grace was oddly surprised to find was filled with tiny little creatures wearing smocks. Each one had big, bat-like ears and eyes as round as tennis balls. 

_Wow, there are so many Boggarts down here._

“They certainly don’t _look_ like dark creatures, do they?” She said quietly to Asha, who laughed out loud. Grace knew at once she must have said something foolish. It was an occupational hazard of being a Muggle-born. 

“These are house-elves.” A kindly voice drifted from over her left shoulder. Turning, she came face to face with Remus Lupin, who seemed to have jumped at the opportunity to engage her in conversation. 

She glared at him and turned back to face Professor Fancourt, ignoring with some difficulty Asha, who was still chuckling. 

“Oh, that tickled me, Gracie.” Her friend said, wiping a tear of laughter from her eye. “ _Dark creatures_.”

Grace poked Asha in the side, but that did little to stem her friend’s mirth. Eventually, however, attention turned back to the matter at hand. 

Professor Fancourt was standing in front of an old cupboard. It was rattling slightly, as though something within was threatening to burst forth at any moment. Perhaps it was. The batlike creatures — _house-elves_ — were taking great pains to give the cupboard a wide berth. One actually crawled on hands and knees under a footstool to avoid skirting the invisible line of ‘too close’ which they all seemed to be observing. 

“Firstly, can anybody tell me what a Boggart is?” 

To Grace’s surprise, it was Remus who answered this question; 

“Boggarts are shape-shifters who take on the form of whatever the person nearest to them fears most. They prefer to live in dark, cramped spaces and nobody knows what a Boggart actually looks like when it is alone.” 

“ _Swot_.” Sirius said idly, flicking his inky hair out of his eyes. Remus gave him a sidelong glance, the merest twitch of his lip the only indication that he was amused by his friend’s jibe. 

“Very good, Mr…?”

“Lupin.” 

“Mr Lupin.” Professor Fancourt repeated with the barest hint of warmth in her voice. Perhaps, then, there was hope for her after all. “You are perfectly correct. Today, each of you will have the opportunity to face the Boggart. Take a moment to picture what it is you fear most and find a way to subvert this fear into something more entertaining. The charm used to repel a Boggart is _Riddikulus_.”

Grace had scarcely a moment to think of what it was that she most feared before Professor Fancourt had flung the cupboard door open with her wand and pushed Emmeline Vance forward to face the creature. 

There was a _crack!_

Then screams. 

“ _—Bloody hell—_ ”

Poor Emmeline stood before a giant wasp. The vivid yellow-orange of its thorax caught the light and the angry buzzing of its furiously beating wings filled the room. 

It hovered in mid-air and slashed threateningly at Emmeline with its glistening sting. 

Grace gasped and next to her Asha had her hands clamped over her mouth. Real or not, it felt impossible not to react to the Boggart. 

Emmeline squared her shoulders and looked up at the wasp imperiously as if daring it to sting her. She all but said; “See if I care!” It was in this moment that Grace understood Asha’s steadfast admiration of Emmeline. She was a Gryffindor, through and through. 

Emmeline raised her wand and shouted; “ _Riddikulus!_ ” 

The wasp shrunk smaller and smaller, until the angry buzzing was little more than a tiny whine. Then, unceremoniously, a fly-swat appeared in midair and crushed the tiny-wasp-Boggart with a satisfying _snap_. 

Grace cheered along with the rest of the class. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. 

Dorcas was next, and Grace could tell in an instant that this encounter was not going to go nearly as well as the last. 

_Crack!_

The Boggart took the shape of an austere-looking man with Dorcas’ eyes. He glowered down at her and Dorcas seemed to shrink in upon herself. 

_“You are such a disappointment to me.”_ The Boggart said coldly. _“You are a failure and a disgrace.”_

Grace watched on in horror as Dorcas’ lip trembled. She raised her wand and feebly cried; “ _R-Ridikulus_!” 

Instead of forcing the Boggart to take another form, Dorcas’ charm seemed only to make the Boggart louder. When the man spoke again, his voice reverberated off the kitchen walls, causing a few pots and pans to fall from their hooks; “ _Dargo Hillock has three sons and what do I get? One skinny little idiot for a daughter! You are my greatest shame, my—”_

At this point, Professor Fancourt had the good sense to yank a now-weeping Dorcas back and shoved Sirius forward in her place. 

_Crack!_  
  
At first, there did not seem to be anything especially wrong. Sirius was standing face-to-face with a perfect mirror image of himself. 

As they watched, however, Boggart-Sirius rolled up his sleeve and smirked at his real counterpart. 

Grace didn’t fully understand what she was seeing, but on Boggart-Sirius’ forearm was an ugly black tattoo of a snake wrapped around a skull. Boggart-Sirius then let his eyes roam around the classroom, before alighting on James, Peter and Remus. Boggart-Sirius raised his wand. 

_Not real. This isn’t real. He can’t actually hex them._

_“Cruc-”_

“NO.” The real Sirius bellowed, forgetting his wand entirely and attempting to tackle the Boggart to the ground. “NOT. MY. FRIENDS.” 

Professor Fancourt tutted indecisively as she watched Sirius pass through Boggart-Sirius and crash to the floor. It seemed as though Boggarts were incorporeal. 

It was James who intervened. Grabbing his friend roughly by the robes, he pulled Sirius back behind him. Sirius was panting, eyes wild as he strained to take another swipe at the Boggart, which was already taking on a new form. 

_Crack!_

James stood face to face with an overwhelming number of people. Boggart-Sirius was still there, but he was now flanked with Boggart-Lupin, Boggart-Pettigrew and... Boggart-Lily? 

Grace blinked, certain that her eyes were deceiving her. But Boggart-Lily remained in place. 

_“We all hate you, you know.”_ Boggart-Lupin said with a cruel smirk. 

_“Massive prat that you are….”_ Boggart-Sirius interjected loftily, examining his nails. 

_“We can’t wait till you leave the room so that we can finally talk about all the stupid things you do.”_ Boggart-Pettigrew sniggered. 

_“Every time you ask me out, I go to my friends and laugh about how utterly pathetic you are.”_ Boggart-Lily taunted, her face twisting into an unpleasant sneer. _“You disgust me, you cockroach.”_

Grace glanced over at the real Lily, who seemed to have gone white at the sight of her own dark apparition. She actually cast a worried glance in James’ direction. 

James, who was standing there, fists clenched, lip trembling. James, who Grace could not have imagined being anything less than self-assured, looked as though he were about to fall apart. 

James couldn’t seem to find it within him to raise his wand. 

Before she even really knew what she was doing, Grace stepped forward. 

She shouted at it, hoping to draw its attention away from James. 

“Oi!” 

The Boggart’s four unsettlingly familiar faces all snapped towards her in unison. Cruel delight lit up their features, making them almost unrecognisable to her. Boggart-Lupin’s eyes glinted in a way she never would have imagined possible of the real Lupin; he looked at her like he was a hungry wolf eyeing a doe. 

For a moment Grace worried that the Boggart wouldn’t change, but before her eyes she saw black tendrils envelop the four figures in front of her. They began to shift. 

_Crack!_

When Grace faced her Boggart she became keenly aware that she had watched far too many muggle films about the undead. 

In front of Grace stood a pillar of grizzled, rotting flesh with cloudy white eyes. 

Its terrible maw seemed to be dangling by a hinge, with one side of its jaw nearly touching its sunken shoulder. Its hands made strange, twitching shapes as it made to lunge at her, sightless eyes somehow filled with ravenous hunger. 

Grace knew she never should have read that book on the magical undead. She had been asking for this.

For a moment she felt like trembling and shrinking back, but it seemed that some of the boldness which had possessed her to step forward in order to spare James still clung to her. She looked at the horrible creature dead in its glassy white eyes. 

She was _not_ going to back down just because some rotting meat-stick lunged at her. 

Nor was she going to remember the instructions given to her by her Professor. 

“ _Bombarda!_ ” Her curse soared right through the Boggart-Inferi and instead blasted the cupboard in which it had been residing to smithereens. Shattered china and wood chips littered the ground, but the Inferi trudged ever closer. 

“I.” She blasted another spell towards it. “HATE.” Another ricocheted off the ceiling. “INFERI.” 

It was Lupin who came to her rescue. Of course it was Lupin. 

The Boggart-Inferi was immediately replaced by a silvery-white orb which hung anticlimactically in midair. Grace blinked. Some of her classmates were still looking around to try and find whatever Lupin’s Boggart was. The orb was so inconspicuous, so unassuming in comparison to all that had come before it, that many were still glancing about for more immediate threats. 

Grace noticed Snape’s lip curling in triumph, his eyes were fixed upon Lupin’s strange Boggart. 

“ _Ridikulus!_ ” Remus said sharply, and the orb transformed into a tiny ball, which bounced around the kitchen rapidly before rolling across the ground.

  
It came to a stop in front of Asha, who jumped backwards in alarm. 

Too late, however, before it was already taking form. 

_Crack!_  
  
Four or five people screamed this time. 

A shadowy figure, a man, was rushing towards Asha, his hands outstretched —plainly meaning to strangle her. 

It seemed to be the vicious speed of the shadow man’s approach that undid Asha. Stumbling backwards, she yelled “GET AWAY!” 

“WAND!” Grace cried, desperately hoping that her friend would gather herself. 

Asha’s wand was up in a flash. “ _Ridikulus!_ ” 

Grace almost breathed easy, but the resulting din made it immediately apparent that Asha’s charm had not worked. 

“A SHARK!” Shrieked Mary MacDonald, clinging to Lily’s arm.

The grey form of the shark cut through the air as though it were water. It moved languidly, slowly, with sightless black eyes. It circled Asha, and Grace knew that her friend must be completely terrified. Grace didn’t know much about the shadow man, but Asha had spoken plenty about her fear of sharks before. 

Asha was frozen, her eyes fixed on the prehistoric monster which circled her. It had rows of jagged, crooked teeth and it was much larger than Grace imagined regular sharks to be. 

The most eerie thing about it was the silence. 

There was no warning growl, and Grace concluded that there was no sound more sinister than its total absence. 

“ _R-Ridikulus…_ ” Asha said with a shuddering breath, the sight of the shark seemed to have robbed her of speech. 

The silhouette of the shark seemed to warp for a moment, but then it continued circling as though nothing had happened. 

“Step back, Miss Moor.” Professor Fancourt said. “Mr Pettigrew, your turn.”

Pettigrew’s Boggart took the form of an enormous, long-toothed Jaguar with vicious yellow eyes, and a harsh, coughing growl that caused almost everybody to jump back a step. He fared no better than Asha and was soon replaced by Marlene. 

Marlene’s Boggart —more than anybody else’s— made Grace’s stomach turn. It was Marlene's grandmother, vacant-eyed and drooling. Marlene begged her grandmother to recognise her but the Boggart-woman just stared right through her, unseeing. Marlene sobbed into Emmeline’s robes for a good ten minutes afterwards. 

Meanwhile, Snape was summoned to face the Boggart. 

_Crack!_

Grace felt her heart plunge into her stomach. Before her lay the corpse of Lily Evans. 

Shocked, she stared at Snape, whose usually sneering expression was now warped in horror. He searched out the real Lily in the crowd, and, seeing her to be very much alive, turned the corpse-Boggart into a flower-bed with apparently little effort. 

Lily was still blushing a furious red when she stepped forward for her turn. 

Grace had never met Lily’s sister Petunia before, but she knew at once that was who the Boggart had become. The thin, horse-faced girl stood with her arms rigidly by her sides. She was flanked by two older people which Grace thought must be Lily’s parents. 

_“Freak!”_ Spat Petunia. 

_“Freak!”_ Echoed the adults at either side of her. 

It was not long before Lily too was sobbing into Emmeline’s robes. At that point so many students were trembling, weeping or merely sitting down on the ground, ashen-faced, that she was forced the banish the Boggart herself. 

“Well!” Professor Fancourt said, her voice wavering slightly as she addressed the class. “That was, er, very good.”

The whole class stared at her in reproachful disbelief. Emmeline, Snape and Remus alone had succeeded in conquering the dark creature, and neither of them looked especially happy about it. Nevertheless, Professor Fancourt ploughed through as though the exercise had been successful, and set a fourteen-inch essay on Boggarts for homework before dismissing them. 

It had been a trying day. Almost all of the students trooped out of Professor Fancourt’s classroom without uttering a word to each other, the worn, heavy silence weighing over them. They didn’t even grumble about the essay but instead trudged gloomily down the corridor. 

Nobody was at all in the mood for Transfiguration with the Hufflepuffs after that ordeal. However, those whose Boggarts had simply turned into animals or monsters seemed to be able to forget their distress as the day wore on. Alas, Grace was not alone in noticing that Marlene, Lily and Dorcas were all uncharacteristically subdued. 

She could not blame them. She didn’t imagine she would be terribly cheerful either, if her loved ones had appeared before her shrieking that she was a failure or a freak, or worse, had forgotten her altogether. 

It was with a pang that Grace recalled the blank, uncomprehending gaze of Marlene’s grandmother, and the thin line of spittle that had dribbled from the corner of her mouth. Grace knew that Marlene’s grandmother had dementia, and that Marlene’s Boggart was not just some terrible abstraction, but a bitter inevitability. 

Even James, Sirius and Remus seemed affected by their earlier trials, and Grace watched with avid interest as the three muttered darkly to each other from the other side of the Gryffindor table at dinner that evening. 

Remus seemed especially anxious and was muttering distractedly to his friends, his brow lined with excessive worry. James and Sirius replied to Remus in reassuring tones, and Sirius clapped Remus on the shoulder roughly before announcing that he was retiring to the boy’s dormitory. 

Grace wondered why Remus’ Boggart had taken a strange form; that silvery orb which was so maddeningly familiar to her. 

Grace could not think where she had seen it before. 

* * *

**_September 7th, 1975_ **

**_Fifth-Floor Corridor, Evening_ **

**_Grace_ **

The fates were always conspiring against her in some way or another. Tonight, they had elected to pair her with Remus Lupin for prefect patrols. 

They had walked together in silence for all of fifteen minutes before Lupin finally cracked. 

“Look, about the other day...” Remus started cautiously, hands in his pockets. “I was rude.” 

It wasn't an apology so much as a statement of facts. Normally Grace would just let it go, but something about the whole business had really gotten under her skin. She was _mad_ at Remus. 

Disproportionately so, given that they weren’t actually friends.

“Yes, you were rude.”

“I’m sorry.” 

_Well, at least he got there eventually._

“I’m allowed to talk to whoever I like.”

“You are. I know.”

“It isn’t fair or reasonable to punish me for getting to know new people, even if you’re not that fond of them.”

“I barely know Roiser, really. I wasn’t meaning to punish you. Something about the whole thing just gives me a bad feeling.”

“It’s not your job to govern my social life.”

“I never said that it was.”

“Keep your bad feelings to yourself, then.”

“Alright, I will.” He looked at her with an anxious expression, before repeating; “I’m sorry.”

Grace deliberated for a moment, before nodding. “I forgive you, just don’t make a prat of yourself again.”

Remus smiled wryly, and Grace felt her frosty defences melt a little. “I promise to do my very best in that regard. Though I warn you, sometimes the prattishness occurs incidentally. It’s an occupational hazard of hanging around with James.”

“No doubt Black can shoulder some blame, too.” Grace said with the faintest trace of a smirk in her voice. “Potter needn’t take sole responsibility for being a poor influence on you.”

“You are perfectly right.” Remus said, looking relieved that they were talking more normally. 

Grace conceded to herself that she may have taken Remus’ snubbing her a little harder than was strictly necessary. He had only been a little stroppy, and she wasn’t convinced that she wouldn’t have found it outright flattering a week ago. 

But Evan Rosier seemed to have changed everything. 

Grace could scarcely remember ever feeling so well-understood. She used to admire Lupin from afar, delighting in his mannerly wickness and the clever things he sometimes said. But Evan had bared his very soul, his psyche to her. Where Remus had held back Evan had given generously. He had sought her out and told her secrets, with no guarantee of reciprocation on her part. 

She found it brave. She only wished Remus had been braver while he had the chance. 

They chatted for a little while about Sirius and James, before Grace’s mind wandered back to their eventful Defence Against the Dark Arts class.

“Some lesson, huh?” 

Remus gave a distracted half-shrug, and avoided Grace’s eye. “I suppose.” His shoulders were tensed as if he was bracing for an oncoming blow. Grace knew he must be worried that she would ask him about his mysterious, silvery Boggart. He plainly did not wish to discuss it. 

“I won’t pry.” Grace reassured him quietly. “We can talk about something else, if you like. Or I can just shut up for a bit. There’s a first time for everything, you know.”

A chuckle escaped his lips. Grace was pleased to see Remus’ shoulders relax a fraction at her words. He turned to Grace, and considered her thoughtfully for a moment. 

“I know a story about a Boggart.” He said slowly. “A nice story, if you can believe. I can tell you, if you like.”

Grace nodded, feeling a rush of gratitude at his willingness to share anything with her after such a trying day. “Please.”

“Well, it starts with my father, Lyall Lupin. He was a clever, rather shy wizard, you know. And an expert in Non-Human Spiritous Apparitions.”

“Oh, sure.”

“Yes, well, it starts with him taking a walk a rather haunted patch of Welsh forest. He came across a muggle woman, who was exceedingly pretty, by the name of Hope Howell. He was hunting for a Boggart, and there had been rumours of one in this particular wood. Hope was an insurance officer in Cardiff, and she’d decided to take the long way home on this particular day.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Unfortunately for Hope, she came across the Boggart before Lyall did. It took the form of a large, evil-looking man bearing down upon her and she screamed bloody murder.”

“Appropriate.”

“Quite,” Remus nodded, “and Lyall, well, he hears the scream. He comes running through the bushes and the Boggart turns into a tiny field mushroom. But Hope thinks that he’s just bravely run off this terrifying man and saved her life. She didn't understand that she was never in any real danger. But Lyall starts blithering on about how it was just a Boggart before he realises that Hope is a muggle, a very pretty muggle. He wisely shuts up and offers to escort her home. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do, he tells her.”

“Smooth.”

“He likes to think so. Anyway, Hope’s rather taken by her hero and they start seeing each other. It isn’t ten months before they’ve fallen madly in love. Lyall even tells her the truth about the Boggart, but Hope doesn’t care. She still loves him. They get married and they even have a Boggart-shaped cake topper. Hope struggles to explain that to all her muggle relatives, but they seem to accept that Lyall is just a bit loopy and it all goes down without a hitch. They spend a year in happy, matrimonial bliss before their first and only son is born.”

“And his name was Remus Lupin.”

“And his name was Remus Lupin.” Remus agreed. 

It was a good story. Grace smiled as she thought about the pretty young muggle and the shy wizard in the woods. In her imagination, Lyall looked exactly like Remus. She wondered if that was the case in reality. 

“That was a nice Boggart story.” Grace conceded. “And a very romantic way for your parents to have met.”

Remus nodded in agreement. “They are very in love, my parents. I feel quite jealous of them, sometimes.”

“I doubt you will have to be jealous for long.” Grace said as she shoved Remus in the shoulder. “Handsome lad like you... I’m sure there are a thousand pretty muggles who would gladly allow you to rescue them from fake-danger.”

“No witches?” Remus inquired lightly, shooting her a sidelong glance. “Only pretty muggles?” 

“You’re not interested in pretty muggles?” Grace asked archly, her eyebrow quirking upwards. 

Remus stared at her for a moment, a long moment, during which time Grace felt her stomach swoop. “Not at the moment.” He answered finally. “Please do not think me prejudiced. I certainly _could_ love a muggle, in theory. My interests at the moment, however, lie elsewhere.”

Grace blushed. She had not missed Remus’ lingering glance, or the laden subtext of his words.

“Professor Fancourt’s a bit of a disaster, isn’t she?” Grace said, averting her gaze as she quite tactlessly changed the subject. 

There was a long silence before Remus saw fit to respond. “She could’ve done with explaining the process a bit better. Given people time to actually picture what they wanted to turn their Boggart into and work up some nerve.” 

“Would’ve helped me.” Grace muttered, remembering the rotting corpse that had stood before her. “I might’ve actually remembered the charm instead of trying to hex it like an idiot.”

“Yes, and the kitchen cupboard might still be with us. You did quite a number on it.” Remus gave her an amused look which she fancied might’ve been tinged with a bit of admiration. “You really don’t like Inferi?” 

“I really don’t like Inferi.”

Remus thought for a moment. “Maybe, one day, I’ll be a Professor here. And I’ll give the Boggart lesson, but without all the trauma.” 

Grace smiled quite genuinely at the thought. “You’d be brilliant at that.” 

“I meant to say, it was decent of you to step in for James.”

“Seemed like the right thing to do. It was nothing.” 

“And yet you’re the only one who did it.” Remus muttered, his brow creasing in a frown. “I feel quite ashamed that I didn’t intervene.”

“I didn’t really think it through.” Grace explained hurriedly. “It all happened so fast. Neither you nor anybody else really got the chance. Plus, it would have been pretty horrible looking at this, well, _evil_ version of yourself.” She shuddered as she remembered Boggart-Remus. 

“It was not pleasant.” Remus said. “It saddens me deeply that both James and Sirius struggle to see the depth of their own goodness.”

For this Grace had no reply. She only stared at the contemplative face of Remus Lupin, playing over the way he spoke about his friends, and thought that he must be one of the loveliest boys she’d ever met. 

_Not as lovely as Evan, though, right?_

Grace was not so sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Grace/Remus heavy chapter, but it will balance out with the next one which focuses much more on Sirius. I'm so glad Pottermore provided the backstory around Remus' upbringing and his parents meeting – it was lovely to be able to include that story here. I welcome feedback, there's a lot going on in my head in terms of direction and focus for this story and knowing what's working / not working for everybody will surely help my overfull brain! Much love, Vixeree.


	5. Lord (REDACTED)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dearborn pulls out, Benjy leans in, the demon-horse curse strikes again, limits are reached, a kiss occurs.

_“She made herself stronger by fighting with the wind.”_

_― Frances Hodgson Burnett,[ The Secret Garden ](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/3186437)_

* * *

**9th September, 1975**

**Hogwarts Library**

**Asha**

Saturday afternoons saw the library uncrowded and drenched in the warm, golden sunlight that streamed through lancet-arched windows. The orange hues of late afternoon mingled pleasantly with the browns and blacks of the countless leather-bound spines which lined the walls from floor to ceiling, as well as the gleaming mahogany of the library furniture. Here everything was dappled amber and sandstone and parchment and leather and woodgrain. 

It was Asha’s habit to slip away and read during these scant golden hours, or else just quietly sit or do her homework. It was her most precious, time-limited sanctuary. 

And today… Today it was being profaned. 

There he sat, a portrait in cool silver tones and antithetically, resolutely dark in the otherwise glowing-warm room. Sucking in all her Saturday-afternoon-cheer as though he were her personal Dementor. 

Sirius Black. 

_Here by invitation._

That was the part which really killed her. She’d _asked_ him into this most hallowed hall, she’d opened the door into her haven and ushered him inside as though he wouldn’t immediately ruin everything. She’d had to, of course. They had pounced on every spare moment of solitude that their respective friends had afforded them, lying, doubling-back, slipping away... always ending up here. Reading in futility. 

There had been no space for sentimentality. Asha would’ve been a fool to pass up a few hours of uninterrupted research, not when they’d done so woefully little, not when they had no answers yet. 

As if her mood hadn’t soured enough, Asha then caught a glimpse of a black-and-white Howard Minchum staring up at her authoritatively from the cover of that day’s _Prophet_. Bulbs flashed intermittently in the incumbent Minister for Magic’s face, but he did not blink. 

**MINCHUM FAILS TO BACK SELF-DEFENCE BILL AND PROPOSES CONTROVERSIAL DEMENTOR SOLUTION**

_‘Minister for Magic Harold Minchum has declined to lend his support to the Magical Defence Bill as it went before the Wizengamot this past Tuesday evening. His drastic counter-proposal, which involves increasing the presence of Dementors in areas most densely populated with wizards, is said to aim to “keep law enforcement in the hands of those most qualified” while discouraging members of the general public from “taking ill-advised, unstrategic risks which endanger the whole community.” Minchum’s counter-proposal has been met with mixed reviews; Albus Dumbledore, Order of Merlin (First Class), Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, has called the move “dangerous, short-sighted, and beneficial only to Lord ( **REDACTED** _ _).'_

She let the paper sag in her grasp, the crinkling sound drawing the gaze of her taciturn and most unwilling companion. His gaze flickered from the article to her face briefly, and his head tilted to the side slightly. He considered her as though she were a fascinating new creature (nothing too impressive, mind you, it was the sort of interest one might show towards a particularly large beetle or a double-headed lizard). 

“Read something depressing, I take it?” He asked lightly, head still tilted and eyes still firmly affixed on her. 

She pushed the paper across the table towards him. “We need to do something about this.” 

“Well, I’ve got a free period after charms, want to storm the Ministry?” Sirius suggested, grinning. “Two fifth-year wizards showing up all righteous and angry, hexing everything that moves? We’ll sort out Minchum by tea-time.” 

“I was thinking something that _doesn’t_ land us in Azkaban.” Asha replied dryly. “And by ‘we’ I meant everyone.” 

“You’re right. James would never forgive me if I broke the law without him.” 

“Well, better him than me.” 

“I see how it is. Just because we’re arch-rivals you don’t want to risk mortal peril with me.”

“In a nutshell.” Asha replied. “Wait, we’re arch-rivals? I thought we were just... I don’t know, casual enemies.” 

“That is completely unbecoming of my stature.” Sirius scoffed before launching into an animated rant which he had almost certainly prepared for this very occasion. “I am not so insignificant that you can banish me to the category of _casual enemy_. Surely we must be nemeses! Locked in a struggle to the death! Who will defeat who? Will the dashingly handsome and rightful crowd favourite Sirius Orion Black prevail? Or will victory be wrestled from his grasp by the insidious Asha Moor, who, while admittedly smarter than the average swamp troll, is certainly not much better looking than one.” 

Frowning, Asha decided the safest option was to plough on as though Sirius had not spoken. “I was actually hoping to make a difference in this war.” 

“Psh.” 

Despite his dismissive snort, Sirius straightened up a bit in his seat. His hands came to rest under his chin and he stared into the distance for a moment, deep in contemplation. 

He snapped his fingers. “Aha!” 

At that moment Madam Pince emerged, seemingly from thin air, jowly face contorted in indignation and hissing. 

“ _This—is—a—library_!” 

Sirius smiled an angelic smile, and tilted his head to the side slightly. “I’m so, _so_ sorry, Madam Pince.” 

Asha was sure the innocent act couldn’t possibly work, and that they were mere seconds from being bodily thrown from the Library. 

But, to her great surprise, Pince’s austere expression softened ever so slightly. She gave Black a final, grave warning before melting back into the stacks. 

She blinked incredulously after the librarian’s retreating form. “I hope you know how absurd it is that you just pulled that off.”

“You’re just jealous because you couldn’t charm your way out of a paper bag.” Sirius said airily. “Anyway, I was having a brilliant idea. We should get back to it.” 

“By all means.” She sighed in resignation, shutting the book in front of her (which, like the thirty-three that had come before it, made no mention of any demonic quadrupeds). The article had thrown her focus. They weren’t getting anywhere today, it seemed.

“We should start a Duelling Club.”

“That’s…” She paused. “That’s actually a really good idea.” 

“I know.” Sirius said, though he did sound mildly surprised to hear Asha admitting it so easily. 

A smile spread across her face as she imagined the possibilities. A Duelling Club. A chance for them to fight back, or at the very least to get prepared for the eventuality. 

“Practically all of Gryffindor would join, no question.” She spoke rapidly as ideas for their new venture flooded her mind. “The Hufflepuffs too, they've got the most Muggleborns, thus, the most to lose. And we can pitch it to the Ravenclaws as a way to revise for their Defence Against the Dark Arts practical.” 

“You know us all so well.” A deep, amused voice sounded from over her shoulder. 

She spun around to see the bright yellow eyes of Caradoc Dearborn. At his side was Benjy Fenwick, who smiled nervously at her, his hands stuffed into his pockets. 

“Caradoc! Benjy!”

“Dearborn. Fenwick.” Sirius grumbled in a decidedly less-than-friendly tone, frowning. 

“Asha. Black.” Caradoc replied, a smile in his voice. “Now that we’ve all greeted each other, maybe we could get back to that Duelling Club idea.”

“Do you two live here or something?” Sirius asked, ignoring Caradoc’s statement entirely. 

“I’m just here to get a reference book for Arithmancy.” Caradoc said genially. “And Benjy tagged along ‘to browse’, but really he was hoping to run into Asha.” 

Benjy blushed and mumbled something to his feet. Asha felt her own face becoming red too. 

“I thought _you_ fancied her.” Sirius said suspiciously, grey eyes narrowed at the broad-shouldered Hufflepuff. 

“Dear Asha will always have my heart,” Caradoc winked at her, “but I have decided to step aside out of respect to Benjy. He’s a good lad. Rakishly handsome. Clever as they come. And occasionally he says funny things by accident, which is almost the same as having a sense of humour.”

“Stop.” Benjy muttered. “Please, for the love of god, stop.” 

_Yes. Please stop._ Asha thought, pink from embarrassment. She lowered her head but couldn’t help noticing out of the corner of her eye that Benjy, all golden hair and Ravenclaw blue, _was_ actually quite good-looking…

“Honestly, Benjy, if you just let me be your wingman you’d find yourself _replete_ with women—”

“Christ, Dearborn.” Sirius cut in. “Start talking about the stupid Duelling Club or get out, all this rubbish about Fenwick and Moor is making my stomach turn.”

Caradoc nodded knowingly. “People often feel jealousy in the gut.”

Sirius made a face. “In this case, it is disgust.”

Asha nodded fervently. “Mutual disgust.” 

“Have it your way.” Caradoc said brightly. “Anyway, I was just going to say, Benjy and I can spread the word to the other Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. You two can handle your lot, no doubt.”

“That’s excellent.” Asha said quite genuinely, grateful for the help. “I can ask McGonagall for permission to use the Great Hall after dinner some nights. It’s probably the biggest space available.”

Sirius merely nodded in assent, he was still frowning at Dearborn. 

“We’ll come find you later and let you know the numbers.” Caradoc winked again, grabbing Benjy by the arm and pulling him away too. 

A heavy, thick silence fell upon Asha and Sirius in the midst of Caradoc’s departure. Asha wasn’t sure why, but she felt nervous about broaching the topic of — well, anything — with Sirius. His expression was extremely forbidding. 

Wordlessly, he turned his attention to one of the many books piled around them (which he had been resolutely ignoring in favour of complaining or for the last two hours) and adopted an expression of steely concentration. 

He did not raise his eyes for thirty long minutes. 

_‘Befuddled’_ was probably the word for it. Asha was befuddled. 

For in the short time they had spent together, she had become accustomed to Sirius Black’s relentless attempts to erode her already fragile self-confidence (with tactics ranging from the innocuous; “Your handwriting is atrocious,” to the more savage; “You’ve got a pimple on your chin. You know there are creams for that sort of thing, right?” and “Is _that_ supposed to be some attempt at a nice hairstyle? Terrible. It looks like a nest of bees.”). 

You see, she had come to _expect_ a steady stream of slurs and insults. Not that it wasn’t annoying — it was even occasionally hurtful — but it was the status quo and Asha derived some comfort from the predictability of it. 

Silence, however, was not standard operating procedure. In fact, Asha could barely remember a moment spent in Sirius’ company which _hadn’t_ been filled with bickering. 

Sighing, Asha tried to push aside any thoughts of Sirius’ strange behaviour. 

He was moody, that was all. Volatile and unpredictable and just generally _difficult_. The matter did not require further analysis. 

The matter of Caradoc Dearborn and Benjy Fenwick, however, _did_ require her attention. 

Asha would’ve been lying if she didn’t admit that Caradoc’s warm, charismatic manner hadn’t attracted her like an awkward, dumb moth to open flame. It was deeply flattering to be flirted with and made a fuss of, after all. She couldn’t remember having ever received that kind of attention before, not like some of the other girls. Not like Lily, or even Grace. 

People never seemed to take to her in the same way they did her more gentle-natured, girlish friends. Asha always felt sort of dark and harsh next to Grace in particular, who was slender and dimpled and more often than not managed to look like actual, literal sunshine. It was that gold-brown curly hair and that smile which just seemed to radiate pleasantness. Next to her, Asha’s dark eyes and hair and brow seemed dull. Next to her, Asha felt too tall and too wide and too curved. She wished, oh how often she wished, that she could be all delicate and elegant lines like a faerie’s child. 

But Caradoc had treated her the way that boys treat pretty girls. And Caradoc was funny, so funny. Asha felt warm and comfortable and safe when he was around.

She had to admit to herself that she had hoped that Caradoc would continue to show her such attention, even daydreamed about going to Hogsmeade with him and kissing his smiling mouth. The thought had made her blush and her toes curl. 

But Caradoc was standing down. For Benjy. 

Benjy, who Asha had never really thought of before. 

But Benjy was handsome. He had those cheekbones and those blue eyes, and that quiet charm that girls liked to swoon over and write into Witch Weekly about (“ _I’m in love with the most gorgeous boy but I don’t think he knows I exist, how do I get him to notice me? HELP! Sincerely, A Living, Breathing Disillusionment Charm_ ”).

And Benjy been all nervous and adorable for her. He’d been thinking of her enough to collude with Dearborn; he was going out of his way to run into her. 

In her mind’s eye she saw the vision of Hogsmeade changing; now she was holding hands with Benjy and he was looking at her with sparkling eyes and he was leaning in and… 

“God, wipe that bloody twitterpated look off your face and get back to work, or I’m leaving.” Sirius snapped, eyes narrowed in disgust as he stared her down. 

She blinked. “Twitterpated?”

“Look it up, plebeian.” 

She shot Sirius a most unfriendly look and returned to her reading without further comment. 

The sooner they solved the mystery of the demon horse, the sooner she could go back to pretending Sirius didn’t exist. And then there would be more time. More time for Hogsmeade and daydreams and finding out what Benjy Fenwick’s lips tasted like.   


* * *

**15th September, 1975**

**The Great Hall**

**Asha**

In the week that followed Asha worked hard to get the inaugural Hogwarts Duelling Club meeting off the ground. 

As it turned out, the idea was highly popular among most of the older students, and after securing permission from McGonagall to use the Great Hall for meetings, Asha found herself standing in a crowd of no less than fifty students. 

There would have been more, Asha was certain, but McGonagall had insisted that students in third year and below be excluded from participating — “I will not allow first years to form the impression that they may challenge each other to duels in corridors with impunity. And I should _hope_ that the older students will be able to employ the knowledge and skills they gain _appropriately,_ and yes, I am looking at _you_ , Mr Black _._ ” 

All of the house tables had been pushed against the walls and a huge cast-iron brazier had been set in the centre of the hall. The flames burned merrily and warded off the evening chill which tended to cling to the old stone walls of the castle. 

Students stood in small clumps, chattering excitedly. 

McGonagall had agreed to run the first meeting; they had assumed that she was an excellent duellist on account of her being, as Grace had once put it, “so comfortingly terrifying”. Moving forward, however, McGonagall had stated quite plainly that she wouldn’t have time to consistently attend — “Please be prepared to make alternative arrangements, Miss Moor. I have a full slate of classes to teach and Head of House duties to uphold.” 

Asha could only hope she would not be reduced to asking Professor Fancourt for guidance. She had intentionally avoided her Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher in the lead-up to their first meeting, lest she volunteer herself to help. 

There had been no mention of approaching the Slytherins at any point during the organising of the Club. (“The last thing we need is a bunch of future Death Eaters learning how to fight.” Sirius had said resolutely, and for her part, Asha had all but forbidden Lily from extending an invitation to Snape. Dorcas _had_ been invited, but she had quickly declined to join them —“Sorry, I don’t much fancy the idea of being the only snake in the garden. Maybe you can practice with me during our free periods.”). 

So as Asha’s eyes swept over the hall she saw that only the mingled tones of crimson, yellow and navy blue accented the black-swathed crowd. 

It was a mark of how well-respected Professor McGonagall was among the students that silence fell the second that she took her place at the front of the room where the head table usually was. Her sharp eyes swept over the congregation before she began her address in an equally sharp voice; 

“A Wizard’s duel is a one-on-one demonstration of magical skill through combat. It may be friendly...” McGonagall paused as a dark expression crossed her face. “Or not.” 

“The aim is to disarm, defeat or kill your opponent.” At this, some students exchanged obvious looks of alarm. “However, for obvious reasons, I encourage each and every one of you to avoid the latter kind of duel. Not just during your formative years, but for the rest of your lives… may they be long and prosperous.” 

McGonagall said this with a slight quaver in her voice, which told Asha how very unlikely McGonagall thought it that all the students assembled in front of her would actually have long, uneventful lives. 

Her chest was ice. _This is really happening._ _There really is a war, and it’s not going to be over by the time we get out of school_. 

_We’re going to be fighting for our lives._

She glanced askance at Sirius Black and James Potter — pureblood heirs to two of the oldest Wizarding families still active. _Well, some of us will be, at least._

“A duel customarily starts with a bow. Magical combat more generally, however, relies on the element of surprise and therefore observing the pleasantries should be done at one’s own risk.” McGonagall frowned. “Today we will be aiming to disarm, and in the second half of the lesson we will try our hand at stunning. Kindly pair off and find a space.”

McGonagall briefly demonstrated _expelliarmus_ and _stupefy_ on an unwilling-looking volunteer who Asha recognised as a fourth-year Ravenclaw called Eloise Chapman. She then instructed them to begin. 

“Shall we?” Lily said brightly, taking it as a given that she and Asha would be working together. Grace was a few metres away, and appeared to have paired off with Mary MacDonald. 

She grinned. “After you, Lils.” 

Lily took her place opposite her with a swift pirouette which whipped up her curtain of deep red hair. 

_Merlin, she has great hair_. 

“Will you bow?” Asha asked playfully. “I’ve been asking for years, but none of you lot seem keen on recognising my authority.” 

Lily laughed freely before sinking into a deeply sarcastic curtsy. 

Following her lead, Asha bent at the waist in a deep, over-the-top bow. “Madam.” 

“Merlin, you’re the worst.”

“You’re forgetting Potter.”

“True.” Lily nodded. “Well, you’re the second-worst.”

“The Vice-Worst, if you will.” She said, playing along in good humour. “That makes Potter the—”

All of a sudden Asha was overtaken by that overwhelming, strange sick feeling. The torchlight seemed to blur and warp before her eyes and she was dimly aware of falling to her knees. The sensation of the cold stone felt faraway somehow, though, despite the fact it touched her skin. 

Her hearing seemed out of whack too. “ _...Asha? Asha, are you alright?_ ” 

Lily’s voice sounded as though it was coming from behind a thick pane of glass. 

“Evans? What’s the matter with Moor?” She thought that must be Potter but she couldn’t raise her head to check. “Bloody hell, Sirius has dropped too. What do you think is wrong with them?”

“I don’t know, but we should call McGonagall over.” Asha could hear the thread of panic in Lily’s voice. “Prof—”

“Mmfine.” Asha heard herself force the words out in a panic. No teachers. Nobody could know. 

_Why? Why couldn’t anybody know?_ A more rational voice in her mind argued. 

_Just can’t. Feels wrong._

“Are you sure? You look white as a sheet, Ash, and you’re all clammy.” 

“I’m fine.” She said, more clearly and evenly this time. She even managed to raise her head to meet Lily’s green, almond-shaped eyes. 

“Asha, are you okay?” A new, equally urgent voice joined the fray. Feeling as though it took a Herculean effort to do so, Asha turned her head to see Benjy Fenwick lingering nearby. His face was drawn with worry. “This happened in the library a few weeks ago. You’re not still sick?” 

“I’m alright.” She said, shakily but insistently. She allowed Benjy to help her to her feet. She spied James doing the same for Sirius nearby, and heard him making gruff assurances as to his well-being — “Bloody hell, Prongs, it was nothing. Just a stupid fainting spell. Now pick up your wand, I’m not duelling an unarmed man.” 

Benjy was still peering at her worriedly, and he hadn’t moved his hands from where he’d grabbed her to support her standing. It reminded her very much of that first time in the library. 

Lily’s eyes seemed to linger on the prolonged contact, and Asha was sure she would be forced to answer questions about the whole situation once they returned to the privacy of the girl’s dormitory. 

“Well, er, good.” Benjy said lamely, having the sense to drop his hands back to his sides. He seemed flustered, apparently having not planned to be in such close proximity to Asha so soon after their last mortifying encounter. 

She smiled wanly at Benjy and went to turn towards Lily again, they were supposed to be duelling, after all. 

“Hey! Um…” Benjy grabbed her attention again, looking thoroughly anxious. She tilted her head in a questioning sort of way. 

“I was just…” he breathed and seemed to find some resolution, “...just wondering if you wanted to go to the next Hogsmeade weekend. With me.”

It was not how Asha pictured it would be, her all clammy and faint and dizzy from the after-effects of a demon-horse curse. In her imagination, Asha did not have grazed knees or a thin sheen of sweat across her brow when a boy asked her out for the first time.

It was, however, still wonderful. 

“Yes.” She said quickly. “Yes, that sounds great, Benjy. I’d love to.” 

“Oh, brilliant.” Benjy looked surprised but pleased by this response. “I’ll, er, let you get back to duelling, then. Hope you feel better soon.” 

Benjy wandered off in the direction of a group of Ravenclaws, one of whom clapped him on the shoulder in what she guessed was a congratulatory way. 

Asha expected to be faced with an unbearably smug Lily, but by some miraculous stroke of luck, the auburn-haired girl seemed to be distracted at present. She was glaring coldly at James Potter, who seemed to be making some fumbling attempt at chatting her up. 

It was then that she felt fingers digging harshly into her forearm. Yelping, she found herself eye-to-eye with Sirius. 

“What’s _wrong_ with you? _Merlin_.” She wrenched herself free from his grip and shot him a glare. 

“I thought you would at least take this _seriously_. We’re at war, Moor, we’re supposed to be learning how to fight. Stop looking for dates.” Sirius hissed, eyes flickering over in Benny’s direction. He looked as though he was ready to hex the other boy. 

Asha balled her fists. “You’re such a _creep_!” 

“A _creep_? Why you—”

“You don’t just _grab_ people like that!” She felt a lump forming in her throat, her nerves were frayed from his unexpected manhandling. She felt the stinging of angry tears in her eyes, so she roughly rubbed them away with her sleeve. 

He stilled. “I’ve upset you.” 

“That was rather the point, wasn’t it? Congratulations.” 

“No.” His face had drained of all the anger she’d seen in it a moment ago. Now he looked anxious, his eyes wide with alarm. “No, it wasn’t.” 

“You spend all your time insulting me and telling me I’m rubbish and now you’re grabbing me out of nowhere and _threatening me_ but I’m not supposed to be upset—”

“No!” His voice took on an almost-hysterical note now. “No, I didn’t mean to—”

“I’m just supposed to think it’s _funny_ , am I?” She continued, her teeth gritted in fury. “I’m supposed to think you’re _so cool_ for calling me ugly and stupid and treating me like I’m worthless…”

“Moor, come on!” He pleaded, looking thoroughly anguished now. Several nearby students had turned to observe the argument. “I don’t think— I didn’t mean… I’m _sorry!_ ” 

_Why is it that every time I fight with Sirius Black there’s a huge bloody audience?_

It was strange, Asha thought. She had never seen Sirius Black struggle for words before. She had never seen him looking so panicked. And she _certainly_ had never known him to offer a genuine apology. 

Perhaps, if she hadn’t already been so angry, if she hadn’t gotten such a nasty shock from the way that he’d grabbed her, she would have been prevailed upon by the unprecedented, impossible nature of his behaviour. 

But she _was_ angry, and frazzled, and all the pent-up frustration she’d felt over the past weeks seemed to be spilling out of her now, and she had no idea how to stem the tide of _fury_ she was feeling at that moment. It was all _his_ fault, after all. If he hadn’t been such a prat she never would have been in the Forbidden Forest in the first place. There’d be no strange sickness, no horrible hours of forced contact with him in the Library, no lying to her friends, no worrying about whether the cruel things he said were true… 

She didn’t even realise she had started yelling. 

“It’s none of your business _if_ or _whom_ I date! We aren’t _friends_ ! We’re not _anything_ !” She imagined she must have looked deranged, red-faced and yelling in the middle of the hall for all to see, angry tears spilling from her eyes. “Not to mention, _some of us_ actually have something to lose if You-Know-Who wins, so don’t accuse me of not taking this seriously. Unlike _you_ , my life is actually on the line. So next time you have the impulse to meddle in my life or touch me, or even so much as look at me, please consider first the fact that _I fucking hate you._ ” 

Sirius went white. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could do so Asha found herself storming from the hall. Her blood was pounding in her ears. Her fists were clenched so tightly that her fingernails were digging into her palms. She wanted to hit something. She wanted to hit _him_. 

All in all, she’d say the first meeting of the Hogwarts Duelling Club had been an unmitigated disaster.

* * *

**_September 17th, 1975_ **

**_Hogwarts Grounds, Lunch_ **

**_Grace_ **

Grace let the bird alight on her outstretched palm, eyes shining in delight at the delicate creature and its incredible lightness. 

She heard the crunching of leaves underfoot and turned her head. 

Evan Rosier stood leaning against a tree-trunk, hands stuffed in his pockets. 

“Well if it isn’t Pocahontas.” He drawled with a smirk. “Or was it Snow White? I can never remember which.” 

She smiled. “I believe the reference works on both levels, if you’re talking about the bird.”

He nodded in assent, lazily scuffing his boot against a root which had been partially unearthed. “I am talking about the bird.” 

As if hearing itself referenced had made it shy, the bird fluttered off, twittering brightly as it did. Grace smiled after it.

“What are you doing out here?” He asked. 

She shrugged. “I am a friend to all living creatures.” She replied vaguely, gesturing around at the brambles and trees — all of which teemed with animal life. Little birds and insects and something which Grace suspected was a slumbering blood-sucking bugbear, based on the sounds it was making. 

Evan pulled _The Catcher in the Rye_ from his bag and held it up, a smirk on his face. “I give you Holden Caulfied vibes, then?” 

She blushed and grinned. “It’s the whole…” she gestured at his general person, “brooding thing.”

He raised an eyebrow, still smirking. “I brood?” 

“With the best of them, no doubt. A regular Lord Byron.”

He chuckled quietly. “I was thinking Rochester, so then you could be Jane.” 

She blushed and looked at her feet. “Shame about that wife you keep locked in the attic.”

She went to brush a strand of her curly hair behind her ear. 

“Let me.” Evan said softly, stepping towards her and grazing his fingertips against the curve of her ear, smoothing down a few flyaway hairs. She shivered, though the climate today was pleasantly warm. His touch felt like fire on her skin; her heart lurched in her chest. 

And then Evan Rosier kissed her. 

He kissed her, and Grace forgot how to think. He kissed her, and Grace felt it would be a miracle if she remembered so much as her own name. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the thing about that whole love/hate, boy-pulls-the-pigtails dynamic... it is problematic. It involves the erosion of one party's self-esteem. We're conditioned to accept this as complimentary but shitty behaviour is not improved by any layer of context. It's just shitty. Calling people names and grabbing them is not cool. Sirius Black is being Not Cool right now, in the same way that too-popular teenage boys who have never been told that their behaviour is inappropriate often are. I wanted to show the development of a relationship which started with this crappy dynamic and actually show some of the harms inherent in that approach. Asha's self-esteem has been genuinely been impacted. However, this is fanfiction and I like these characters together so of course there is redemption ahead. How can people learn to relate to each other differently, better? This is the essential question that I seek to answer in the unfolding of this pairing. These two have a lot of growing to do. 
> 
> Anyway! Thanks for reading. I hope you're all enjoying the fic. Comments and kudos most appreciated!


	6. There's Nothing Healthy About A Tan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sirius Black is a grumpy cat, Remus Lupin experiences an emotional gut-punch, and pinecones fly.

_“What? Just because I can't have you right now, doesn't mean I'm okay with him having you.”_

_―_ **_Cora Carmack, Losing It_ **

_“Jealousy’s a weak emotion.”_

_―_ **_Jay-Z_ **

* * *

_**17th September, 1975**_

**The Black Lake**

**Remus**

It was unseasonably warm for late September, and Remus was surprised to feel a sheen of sweat across his brow as he lazed with his friends by the glittering lake. 

Stretching his arms and tucking them underneath his head, he made the most of the sun. He felt the heat across his cheeks and nose and knew that tonight when he looked in the mirror, he would see his freckles had darkened. He was grateful for the slight golden undertone of his skin, which helped him better tolerate the warm weather. 

Remus found that he became almost olive-skinned during the summer months he spent at home. There was so little to do when he was on break from school, after all. So when his ill-health did not prohibit him, he took to reading outdoors, near ponds or else little wooded copses where the sun still reached. It was a well-loved, peaceful practice, made even more enjoyable now that he was back where he truly belonged. _Hogwarts_. 

He sighed as the sun kissed his face. His eyes drifted closed. 

“ _Hmph_.” 

He cracked an eye open. 

“ _What_ , Sirius?” 

Sirius was too pale to enjoy the good weather so brazenly, and so languished in the shaded branches of a tree near the shoreline, his jaw set broodingly as he stretched out along a low-hanging branch like a disgruntled cat. He was glowering at Remus, as though personally offended by his sunbaking. 

“Nothing.” Sirius sniffed unconvincingly. “Anything good, Wormy?” 

Peter had joined them a short while ago; having padded out from the Castle and settled cross-legged on the soft shaded grass with a Zonko’s brochure in hand. He had been flicking through it quietly as had Sirius brooded and Remus tanned. 

Now, however, he dropped it in surprise at being addressed and turned his wide, watery eyes towards Sirius. “Just a new product line from Dr Filibuster. Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks.”

Sirius scoffed. “Well, _that’s_ not any use.”

“Could be…”

“We figured out how to make those ourselves in second year, Wormy, why in Merlin’s name would we _pay_ for them?”

Peter was saved the task of responding by a wordless shout. 

Remus, Sirius and Peter all snapped to attention, seeing a figure with rumpled, untidy hair sprinting towards them. 

“Alright, Prongs?” Sirius called out to his best friend, a glimmer of concern in his eyes. 

Remus sat up as James reached them, the bespectacled boy’s chest was heaving and his tie was askew. It was the first time in ages that Remus could remember James having unintentionally untidy hair, he was so used to seeing his friend muss it up on purpose to impress Lily Evans. 

“Jones has been compromised.” James puffed, bending down with his hands on knees as he attempted to regain his breath. “I fear for Gryffindor.” 

Remus swallowed down the swooping feeling in his chest at the mention of Grace. “You’re going to have to be more specific if you want our help, Prongs.” 

“Alright!” James threw his hands up in irritation, still struggling to regain his breath. “My problem is, _specifically_ , that I just saw Jones snogging bloody _Rosier_ of all people at the edge of the school grounds. Rosier. A _Slytherin_.”

Remus had never been stabbed before, but hearing that Grace was with Rosier gave him a reasonable approximation of what the experience would be like. There was a sickening, rending sensation followed by the cold swooping of his gut as his mind raced with thoughts of what an _idiot_ he had been.

He had been so _stupid_ to feed the thoughts of him and Grace together, because quite aside from him being a werewolf, _of course_ she’d pick somebody else. Somebody better-looking like that prat Rosier. Somebody smarter and cooler and _older_. 

Remus thought of Evan Rosier’s dark good-looks and his untidy, dangerous style and mulled over all he had heard about how _clever_ and _talented_ the Slytherin boy was, how effortlessly good he was at almost everything. His gut wrenched. He had been such a fool to think that Grace would like _him_ \-- quiet, bookish, mysteriously-ill-once-a-month Remus Lupin - over somebody like that. 

  
Of course, Remus had never actually tried with Grace, not really. He always held himself back from getting to know her too well and on the occasions that he felt his crush growing out of hand, he had actively avoided her. Eventually, these stronger feelings would subside, and Remus would notice himself edging nearer and nearer to her once again. 

All of last year, it had been like this. Like an elastic stretching further and further back before snapping into shape. He found that he couldn’t keep away from her. But he could hardly ask her out, either. 

He had become used to this torturous in-between, where he allowed himself his feelings but denied them any real outlet. It was just barely tolerable because he could still _think_ of Grace, even if he couldn’t really get to know her properly. He allowed himself the fantasy of her as he stared up at the canopy of his four-poster at night, indexing the things they might do together if he had never been bitten by Fenrir Greyback. 

Remus did not think he would be able to enjoy such thoughts now. All he could picture was Grace laughing as Rosier whispered something in her ear, Grace smiling lovingly at Rosier, Grace _kissing_ Rosier, like James said she was… 

Remus very much wanted to hit something. 

In stark contrast to Remus, all tension had vanished from Sirius’ expression at James’ words. He stretched out on his branch, placed his hands behind his head and allowed his eyes to flutter closed - a perfect image of boredom and disinterest. “So? What’s it matter if your Keeper has rubbish taste in lads?” 

And so the sharp pang in Remus’ chest was closely followed by an emotional knife-twist as James obviously _kept talking_ , like he had no idea that Remus had just descended into abject misery, as though the ground hadn’t just opened up and swallowed him before their very eyes. 

“She’s _compromised_ ,” James repeated exasperatedly. “Pressed up against a tree and snogging the living daylights out of each other. You should have _seen_ the way they were going at it—”

“—For goodness _sake_ , Prongs, just shut up about it.” Remus abruptly sprung to his feet, his mind swimming with images of Grace and Rosier. Rosier and Grace. He needed to get out of here. 

James’ eyes widened in surprise at the outburst. “Something the matter, Moony?” 

“I’m fine.” He snapped, and then, recovering himself slightly, added; “Just hot. I think I’ll go back inside.” 

“I’m going to pretend to believe you, Moony, but only because I _don’t care_...” Sirius rolled his eyes, his tone a sardonic drawl as he refused the match the slightly frenetic energy both James and Remus were giving off. “What’s it to me if you’re secretly hot under the collar for Jones?” 

Both Remus and James glowered up at Sirius, while Peter wore an agonized expression, torn between his friends. 

Remus was used to this from Sirius -- whenever the other boy had his ego bruised he became prone to these cold, cruel spells and bouts of ill-temper. Once, after he had been rejected for a date by an especially pretty Ravenclaw in third year, Sirius had said something so astonishingly cruel to Peter than James had decked him in the middle of the Gryffindor Common Room. 

Sirius had apologized exhaustively, of course, and James had laughed the whole thing off in an instant. They were like that -- James and Sirius. They could weather fights and flare-ups and disasters as though they were nothing at all. A brief punch-up or a shouting match or a well-timed jinx and they’d fall straight back into their unassailably good friendship like nothing had ever happened. 

It was a good thing, too, because sometimes Sirius really needed to be knocked down a peg. 

“You don’t have to be a prat to Moony just because Moor had a go at you,” James said coldly, placing a reassuring hand on Remus’ shoulder. “Ignore him, Moony, he’s just in a strop because he had a fight with his _girlfriend_.” 

Sirius’ cold haughtiness turned to fury in an instant. Ignoring his wand altogether, he pegged a pinecone at James’ head. 

James narrowly avoided the projectile and picked up a stone. “Prat!” He growled as he hurled the rock at his best friend. 

Remus watched with some bemusement as Sirius yelped and fell from the tree, having lost his balance as he rocked backwards to avoid the stone. 

Sirius sprang to his feet and dusted himself off with as much dignity he could muster, though dirt and grass still marked his robes in spite of these efforts. He growled low in his throat and for a moment Remus thought he was going to go for his wand.

At the last moment, however, he seemed to stop himself. He huffed, his eyes darting between James and Remus resentfully. 

“She’s _not_ my--” Sirius cut himself off, a sullen and sulky expression crossing his face. “I don’t want to talk about Moor.”

“Well, _I_ don’t want you saying stuff about me and Grace.” Remus retorted before James could answer. “Or my feelings, or- whatever.” He finished somewhat lamely. 

Sirius gave him a long, assessing look before finally answering. “Fine.” 

“You’re a royal prat, sometimes.” Remus couldn’t help but add.

At this the slightest hint of contrition stole away onto Sirius’ face. “I know. Sorry, Moony.” 

James cleared his throat loudly, fishing for his own apology. “ _And…_?”

Sirius blinked in faux-innocence, as if unsure of what exactly James wanted. “Oh, and next time I throw a pinecone at you, Jamie, I swear I won’t miss.” 

Sirius chuckled as James lunged at him, the latter boy growling “Bloody berk!” 

James secured Sirius in a headlock, but Sirius just laughed, jabbing his fingers into James’ underarms where he knew he was most ticklish. James squealed almost girlishly and fell to the ground, taking Sirius with him.

Remus almost smiled at the sight of his idiot friends squabbling in the dirt, but then he _remembered_. Grace and Rosier. 

Perhaps it was just his imagination, but the sun didn’t seem to be shining so brightly anymore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short one today! I've written another 4000 words directly following this scene but it's not complete/edited as yet, and I wanted to give you guys something to tide you over while I sort it all out. Hope this Remus-centric Marauder goodness hit the spot :)


	7. The Mere Shadow of a Fancy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He really is going to try and pole vault into the girl’s dormitory,” Remus said in mild astonishment.

**“** Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley’s attentions to her sister, Elizabeth was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely allowed her to be pretty: he had looked at her without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise. But no sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she had hardly a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those of the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. Of this she was perfectly unaware: to her he was only the man who made himself agreeable nowhere, and who had not thought her handsome enough to dance with.”

 **—** Jane Austen, _Pride and Prejudice_

* * *

**20th September, 1975**

**Girl’s Dormitory**

**Grace**

Grace would forever marvel at the sheer hedonism occasioned by Mary MacDonald’s birthday. 

She could hardly believe that it was only two years ago, when, at the tender age of fourteen, Mary had announced her intention to throw a Firewhiskey Pyjama Party, which, as she so succinctly put it, “Emmeline is not allowed to ruin, so stop looking at me like that and just shut up and do your shot, it’s _my_ birthday and I say _drink_.” 

Grace oft wondered what otherworldly powers of persuasion Mary must’ve had that she could so easily strong-arm the other girl, who was usually so difficult to bully. 

In any case, it was for the public good, because few things in the world were as fun and cheerful and _stupid_ as their annual girls-only Firewhiskey Pyjama Parties. 

Naturally, the pyjama bit came first. 

And so, they’d all washed and changed into their most festive sleepwear. Asha was dabbing a green face mask onto a resigned-looking Emmeline while Marlene painted Mary’s toes a pretty periwinkle blue colour — warpaint for the night to come.

Lily was perched near the record player, sifting through a box of Muggle vinyl that Grace had brought from home.

The Firewhiskey had been cracked open, of course, but they hadn’t hit it too hard yet. “We need music _first_ ,” Asha had insisted, swiping the bottle from Mary a millisecond before it touched her lips. “My vote’s for the Beach Boys.”

Mary pouted and eyed the bottle. 

Marlene groaned from where she knelt by Mary’s feet. “God, no! I can’t stand to hear you go on about _Pet Sounds_ _again_.” 

Asha took a steadying swig of Firewhiskey, causing Mary’s expression to sour further as she exclaimed in protest — “It’s my _birthday_!”. 

Asha ignored her and responded to Marlene in a would-be calm voice; “Marlene. Brian Williams is a beautiful genius and _Pet Sounds_ is the perfect album, perhaps the best of all time. This is indisputable. This is inalienable fact. I _beg_ you to see reason, or at the very least stop before you hurt someone—”

Marlene rolled her eyes and cut Asha off mid-sermon; “Oh, come on! It isn’t even _their_ best album, let alone—”

Asha gasped sharply and clutched the material of her nightshirt, as though Marlene had suggested something as taboo as ritualised child murder. “You take that _back_!”

“ _Shan’t_!” 

Grace had the impression that Marlene was only barely quashing the impulse to stick her tongue out.

It seemed Asha had arrived at a similar conclusion, as her eyes remained narrowed to slits as she took another fortifying swig of firewhiskey. 

She then hotly retorted; “It’s people like _you_ , the… the _Mike Loves_ of the world that—”

“Hey, now, there’s no need to toss about the M-word.” Grace interjected soothingly before Marlene could start again, holding her hands up in the universal signal for ‘don’t shoot’. She was beginning to feel that running interference between Asha and Marlene was a full-time gig. “I’m more in the mood for something else anyway… Any Otis, Lils?” 

“Oh, yes. You’ve got _King & Queen _, will that work?” Lily flipped through the records and pulled one from its sleeve. Soon the soulful, warbling tenor of Otis Redding and Carla Thomas filled the girl’s dormitory. 

Both Asha and Marlene seemed to accept Grace’s deflection, and Asha handed custody of the Firewhiskey back to Mary, who hooted happily and took a swig, sloshing half the amber liquid onto her nightshirt. 

And so commenced part two of proceedings; getting trolleyed and talking shit about all the people Mary hated (and a lot of the people she didn’t, for good measure).

The bottle was passed around, and soon all the girls were very pleasantly tipsy. The room was filled with the low mingling tones of laughter and voices that had smiles in them and soul music. 

The Firewhiskey burnt going down, but Grace rather liked the feeling. The drink made her belly warm and she felt a goofy, blissed-out smile cross her face as her mind strayed to Evan Rosier. 

They’d kissed and kissed under the cover of the Forbidden Forest, kissed until Grace’s lips felt red and puffy from it. She remembered the feeling of being pressed between Evan’s firm body and the trunk of a rowan tree. It felt as though he had _possessed_ her with every touch of his hands, his lips… God, being pressed up against him like that had lit a fire in her belly she’d never even felt before. Now, as she drank and enjoyed the aftershocks of that new burn, Grace felt her face flush. 

She couldn’t definitively say whether it was the Firewhiskey or the memory of her frankly _extremely hot_ encounter in the forest that caused her cheeks to glow so bright hot. She was sure one of her friends would notice and question her if she didn’t pull herself together, though. 

Taking another gulp of Firewhiskey, Grace tried to focus instead on the music (and not her filthy, salacious, scarlet-woman thoughts). 

_It's like thunder, lightning,_

_The way you love me is frightening,_

_You better knock, knock knock, knock, knock,_

_On wood —_

Grace allowed herself to bop and sway to the music, laughing as Asha joined in from across the room with uncoordinated enthusiasm — in spite of her head start, Asha didn’t seem too intoxicated. Not nearly as bad as Mary, who was already slurring a little. 

Grace watched as Asha grabbed Lily by the waist and twirled the redhead so forcefully that she stumbled and knocked an open bottle of nail polish. It spilled and stained the outfit Marlene had laid out to wear to Hogsmeade the next day (which caused Marlene to shout quite a bit— “You’d better buy me a new top, Moor, or I’ll turn you into a venomous toadstool!”). 

Grace revised her initial assessment. Maybe Asha was a _little_ drunk. 

Soon enough Mary insisted on games, as was their custom (and integral to part three of proceedings — merrymaking). They sat in a circle, cross-legged and perched on beds, while Mary explained the rules of ‘Never Have I Ever’, which Grace privately thought was going to be pretty dull, considering how little they’d collectively done. 

“Never have I ever shagged a boy!” Mary began, bull-rushing the most risqué question with all the subtlety and finesse of a rampaging rhino. 

Predictably, nobody drank. 

“Look at the sorry lot of us!” Asha remarked dryly, rosy-cheeked and grinning from drink. “Blushing maidens, all!” 

“Marlene, your turn!” Mary trilled, undeterred. 

Marlene rolled her eyes. “Never have I ever snogged a bloke.” 

Marlene herself drank, along with Mary, and to everybody's surprise — _Emmeline_.

There were many noisy exclamations and demands for details, but Emmeline gave no information beyond coyly explaining that the Muggle that lived one hedge over was a good-looking sort.

Everyone was laughing and teasing, drunk and loose and happy. 

Except for Grace. Grace had frozen, and she imagined her expression was redolent of a deer in headlights. Should she drink? Her glass hovered uncertainly between her lap and her lips. 

Asha, of course, noticed. 

“ _Grace Jones!_ ” She exclaimed, her expression one of pure shock. “You’ve been snogging!”

“I—” 

“She _has_ ,” Marlene breathed. “Just look how red she is!”

“Spill, Jones!” Mary demanded imperiously. “It’s my birthday and I want to know _all_ about it!”

“Who’d you snog?” Asha demanded, looking more than a little cross. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It only happened the other day!” Grace scrambled to explain, which seemed to placate Asha somewhat. 

“ _Who_ ?” Mary pressed. “ _Where_?”

“Was it Lupin?” Marlene added eagerly.

“Of course not!” Grace said, shifting uncomfortably on her mattress. “It wasn’t Lupin. It was Evan Rosier, if you _must_ know.” 

An uneasy silence followed Grace’s words. Asha’s no longer appeared to be incensed at having been kept out of the loop, and instead looked quietly troubled. Marlene was frowning. 

Mary made a face. “ _Rosier_?”

“He’s very good looking, and talented.” Lily said fairly.

“He’s a Slytherin!” Mary cried. “He’s not your boyfriend, is he?”

“I… well, I don’t know—”

It occurred to Grace that though an awful lot of snogging and breathy _I-like-you's_ had been traded under the rowan tree, not once had she bothered to ask if she and Evan were going to be properly dating. Cor, were they even _exclusive_? Grace felt as though her head was spinning. 

“Leave her be.” Asha suddenly cut in, eyeing her with obvious concern. “Grace will tell us when she’s ready. Won’t you, Gracie?”

Grace nodded, so relieved she could’ve kissed Asha. Then they’d both definitely have to drink. 

Asha scowled at nobody in particular, before adding; “And she can snog as many Slytherins as she bloody well likes, Macdonald.”

Grace felt a warmth in her chest that had nothing to do with either Firewhiskey or Evan Rosier. She smiled gratefully at Asha, and the other girl shrugged as if to say ‘what are friends for?’. 

Lily’s eyes darted between Asha and Mary. “Alright—”

But Lily was cut off by a surprised shout and a distant thud. 

Six heads whipped around towards the door and the stairwell that lay beyond, eyes widened in shock and (in Mary’s case) savage delight. 

“A boy just tried to get into our dormitory!” Mary crowed, bouncing on her heels and rushing to the door — all resentment apparently forgotten. “Oh _quick_ , girls, I want to see who it was!” 

* * *

**20th September, 1975**

**Common Room**

**Sirius**

Sirius Black had known James Potter to do some bloody stupid things in their five years of best-friendship. In fact, Sirius could usually be relied upon to actively take part in the Doing of Stupid Things, on near every possible occasion. 

But tonight — tonight Sirius felt like he imagined Moony usually did. He felt like groaning and chiding and telling Prongs to _go to his room this instant_. 

Sirius reclined on a chintz lounge, shifting and fidgeting in spite of his comfortable lodgings. Moony and Wormtail were settled quietly into the rug by his feet, pouring over their homework like the diligent little parrot gizzards that they were. 

“He’s trying the girl’s staircase again,” Remus remarked baldly, observing James with resigned weariness. 

Sirius watched as Prongs limbered up for his latest doomed venture, straining to and ultimately failing in the attempt to touch his toes and then rapidly jogging in place for a few moments.

Sirius snorted with derision. He looked _ridiculous_. 

The staircase, James had argued only hours earlier as he filled Sirius in on the whole farcical plan, was a wizard’s (or, more likely, witches) invention and therefore had displayed an impressive resistance to magical befuddlement over the years. It wasn’t, however — James had explained with manic enthusiasm — designed to withstand meddling of the _Muggle_ variety. 

And so James had concocted a plan, a plan which had its sorry origin in the ridiculous image printed on page two hundred and thirty-seven of Peter’s Muggle Studies textbook. 

The image had been subtitled with two tiny, fateful words — _pole vault_.

“He’s planning on vaulting up there on some Muggle athletics stick,” Sirius answered Moony with derision. “Reckons the anti-intruder wards can’t extend the whole way up the staircase.” 

“Ah, Bruenner’s Magical Law of Conservation.” Moony nodded knowingly. “It’s a good thought, but knowing James—”

“—He’s sure to balls it up somehow.” Sirius finished flatly.

Though bemused with James’ current attempts to breach the girl’s privacy, he was glad to find himself on the same side as Remus again. He had worried that his stormy mood and resulting nastiness about Jones would drive a wedge between them, but Moony had forgiven him easily. 

Not for the first time, Sirius wondered what he had ever done to deserve such brilliant, loyal friends. 

James clapped his hands together with some sort of climbing chalk and picked up a stick at least twice as long as he was tall. 

_Brilliant, but cracked._ Sirius amended. _Cracked and mad and bloody stupid._

“He really _is_ going to try and pole vault into the girl’s dormitory,” Remus said in mild astonishment. 

“Was there really any doubt after he bothered to order that bloody ridiculous stick through Owl Post?” Sirius shifted up in his seat, eyes focused solely on James now (who had ceased his preparations and was now pacing out his run for the stairs). 

Up until that point, Sirius had at least been trying to pretend that he didn’t care about what James was doing. He really couldn't understate how much of a waste of their precious time he thought this whole fiasco was, because who _cares_ if they couldn’t get into the girl’s dormitory? In Sirius’ experience, it was almost laughably easy to coax young ladies up to the boy’s quarters when the need arose, anyway.

And call him old-fashioned, but Sirius felt that there was absolutely nothing wrong with a run-of-the-mill broom cupboard.

But now the time had come, and Sirius noted his perverse need to fully attend to every second of his friend's imminent humiliation.

It was a shame that there were no cameras on hand. Eternal photographic proof of what was to follow might’ve been enough to convince Sirius that the whole venture had been worthwhile. 

James breathed, observing the proper form shown in the picture from Wormtail’s book, and, gripping his pole, ran towards the stairs. 

James got the pole down well enough, Sirius had to admit, and the expression of pure astonishment on James’s face at finding himself suddenly and uncontrollably airborne was a treat within itself. 

He flew cleanly through the air — gasps of astonishment could be heard from onlookers — and landed three-quarters of the way up what was visible of the girl’s staircase. He — quite admirably, Sirius had to admit — managed to maintain his footing and steadied himself against the solid stone of the walls. 

James froze, and a long five seconds passed. Sirius himself couldn’t help but openly gape.

Surely not… a _pole vault—_

James shrieked as the ground beneath him gave way and the staircase formed a slide. Desperately attempting to cling to something — _anything_ — James shot arse-first down the stone chute and barreled over a timid-looking second year girl. 

The Common Room rung with laughter. Grumpily, James pulled himself to standing and begrudgingly offered his hand to the second-year, who looked rather dazed and more than a bit agog at even peripheral interaction with _the_ James Potter. 

Sirius grinned. Remus chuckled. 

“Brilliant, Prongs.” Sirius made no effort to conceal his mirth. 

James grumbled, messy hair messier than normal, robes rumpled. “Shut up.” 

Sirius had opened his mouth to form some acerbic reply when _they_ started coming down. 

First was Jones, who slid down the stair-slide and rocked back on her heels and sprung upright to standing. It was done with a surprising measure of coordination, which proved short-lived as _Moor_ promptly followed, slamming bodily into her and only just managing to keep upright. 

Moor, admittedly, wasn’t _quite_ as graceless as Macdonald, though, who came down sideways and squealing. Nor McKinnon, who immediately excused herself to vomit in the fifth-floor corridor outside—green around the gills from what was obviously a pretty heavy night of drinking. 

It was Vance who proved singlehandedly that there was such a thing as a _dignified_ slide, and Evans fared okay too, all things considered. 

The whole lot of them reeked of Firewhiskey.

Vance brushed away imaginary dirt from her pyjama pants as Macdonald eyed the congregation with drunkenly gleeful interest. 

“Well? Who was it then?” Vance asked shortly, eyes scanning the crowd of boys and making Sirius feel inexplicably guilty, given that — this time at least — he had nothing to do with it. “Who tried to get up the staircase?” 

All eyes went to James, who blushed darkly and muttered something about passive betrayal. Macdonald giggled loudly at him, causing the boy to blush an even deeper red. 

“Potter. You’re an idiot.” Vance said frankly, and just like that the matter was closed. 

For a moment it looked as though Vance was about to lead the cohort back up to the privacy of the girls dormitory, but Moor and Jones had already wandered over to the hearth. 

“It’s so cozy down here!” Moor sighed, drawing her knees up by the fire.

Moor bowed her head towards Jones and started talking, grinning wide and throwing her head back in a laugh every now and then. 

Subconsciously, Sirius noticed himself straightening up, orienting himself to face her from across the room. He was dimly aware of James rejoining them and making noise about how unfair it all was, but Sirius couldn’t bring himself to give a single fuck. 

He was busy. Busy feeling as though he was seeing Moor for the very first time. 

Her face had a scrubbed, clean look and her hair was slightly damp. A heedless, giddy grin set her round cheeks aglow - a flush that he knew was from Firewhiskey showed below her bare collarbones. 

He observed the way the soft fabric of her fresh pyjamas floated loosely at the hemline of her shorts and wrists. His eyes ghosted over her hands, her fingertips — which were wrinkled and pruned from being in water too long — the line of her jaw and her pointed chin, the small scrapes and bruises that stippled her pale legs — vestiges of her persistent clumsiness.

There was nothing at all erotic or special or _different_ about it, but Sirius felt his heartbeat quicken all the same. 

The glow of the hearth made her eyes shine like copper, and he wondered how he had never noticed the brightness of them before… She’d always just been _Moor_ , who had dark eyes and dark hair. _Moor_ , his fellow Gryffindor, part of the furniture of his life at Hogwarts. 

And then, of course, she had become his annoyance — _Moor_ , who pricked at his insides with her harsh words that festered in his brain when he was just trying to bloody _sleep_ at night. 

But he had been wrong all along. 

The girl laughing by the fire was _Asha_ \- bright, resplendent, wicked Asha. Asha who had shining, copper eyes and long, fine hair that looked so soft that he was struck with the sudden urge to reach out and brush it with his fingertips. Asha who set the room alight with her unguarded, whiskey-drunk expressions. 

Asha, who was frowning at him, because he was _staring_ and she didn’t like him— hated him, in fact.

God, how the thought made his chest ache now.

“All right, Black?” She asked archly, shoulders stiffened and deep, dark, pretty eyes staring piercingly in his direction. 

Sirius opened his mouth to speak, and closed it again. 

“Uh…” 

Helplessly, he cast his gaze around to Remus and James, who were both looking at him expectantly. 

“Hmph.” Moor— _Asha_ pulled herself to standing, extending a hand to Jones as though she were some eighteenth-century gentleman. “Come on, Gracie.”

Sirius felt James’s lingering gaze on him but was spared the immediate obligation of responding by Mary Macdonald, who became suddenly ill and bolted up the (newly-reformed) staircase to go vomit in the dormitory bathrooms. 

Marlene McKinnon, freshly returned from expelling her own stomach lining, sighed resignedly and traipsed up after her — “I’ll go hold the birthday girl’s hair, shall I?” 

Vance nodded at McKinnon and declared the night over. “Hangover potions and bed, you three.” She had said to Asha, Jones and Evans. 

Evans obliged her with a quick summoning charm — a collection of glass vials clinked against each other lightly as they zoomed into the girl’s waiting hands. The brew was a bright mint green with which Sirius was intimately familiar — nobody could accuse Sirius Black of being a stranger to overindulgence. 

Asha smiled, and Sirius did _not_ stare at her full lips (nor did he swallow slowly, his own lips parted in a slight daze, and he most certainly did _not_ feel the traitorous twitch of _something_ below his belt), and she said; “Thanks, Lils. You’re brilliant.” 

“It was Sev who brewed it, actually.” Evans replied lightly. 

“Well, cheers to Snape, then.” Asha said brashly before raising her vial in mock-salute. 

“Cheers.” The others echoed, and there was the sound of chinking class. 

Sirius and James couldn’t help but make faces at these words, and watched as the three girls gulped down the mint-coloured potion in Snivellus’ name before Vance trooped them up to bed. He watched until the very last moment, when Asha's bare ankle (and _what_ an ankle it was!) disappeared from sight as she ascended the stairwell to bed. 

Sirius was aware of eyes turning back towards him. 

“Anything to share with the class, Pads?” James asked in a falsely-sweet voice. 

Sirius blushed furiously. “No. Shut up.”

“Not his best deflection,” Remus said mildly. “Maybe even his worst.” 

“You’re forgetting that time in second year with the Scottish lass—”

Sirius made a low noise of protest. The incident in question had been placed under a cone of silence some years previous, under threat of bullocks being hexed off and other such horrors. 

“I say, Moony, did you notice our dear Padfoot staring into the fire rather avidly just before?”

“When before?” Remus volleyed, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You mean around the time that Moor was sitting by it?”

“I do believe I recall some particular interest in the flames around about then, yes.” James grinned. “In fact, it was rather hard to tell if Padfoot was staring at the fire or the girl, though I had _thought_ that Padfoot rather hated Moor.” 

“It didn’t _seem_ a hateful look.” 

“No, it didn’t, did it?” James replied musingly. “More of a…” James snapped his fingers in sudden inspiration. “I know! A desirous gaze.” 

It was then that Peter saw fit to chime in; “I detected a hint of longing, myself.” 

James grinned at his rodentine friend. “See that’s really interesting Pete, because I observed the same—”

Sirius growled out loud, causing several nearby students to jump out of their skins. “ _Shut up_ , will you?”

“You know how to make us stop,” James said sweetly, unaffected by the outburst. “Out with it, Pads. And remember, Marauders don’t lie.”

“Not to each other, anyway,” Remus said fairly. “Lying to _external_ parties seems to occur alarmingly often.” 

James nodded in agreement, hazel eyes fixed on Sirius. It wasn’t fair — Sirius had never been able to fool James like he could everybody else. Sometimes Sirius wondered if James was distantly related to Dumbledore — they both had that laser-eyes-of-truth thing going on, where Sirius was sure they could literally _see_ his secrets written across his face in permanent ink. 

He buried his face in his hands and groaned low. There was no denying it — this terrible truth of truths. 

So he let the words tumble out. 

“I’ve just got a stupid crush on stupid Moor, alright?"

Expectant silence resounded, and so, taking a deep breath, Sirius pushed on.

"Not even a proper _crush_ , per se, more the… the mere shadow of a fancy, really.” He paused, cheeks hot, before adding defensively; “I’ll be over it by next Tuesday.” 

“‘ _The mere shadow of a fancy’_.” Remus repeated flatly. “Yeah, okay.” 

James merely chortled, hazel eyes twinkling with so much mirth you’d think Christmas had come early, and slapped his back. “Good luck with that one, mate.”

Sirius glowered, privately thinking that there wasn’t enough luck in the world to make Moor fancy _him_ — in mere shadow form or otherwise. 

As far as Sirius saw it, he had two options; 

  1. Forget about Moor and go date other girls — pleasant girls, friendly girls, girls who smiled and winked and laughed at his jokes even when they weren’t that funny, or;
  2. Try and seduce Moor — who he apparently found to be really fucking beautiful all of a sudden, down to her actually _totally unremarkable_ ankles — even though she was perhaps the only person he’d yet encountered who didn’t actually _want_ his attention and seemed to think of him as literal pond scum.



He sighed and rubbed his fingers against his temples in small circles. It really wasn’t much of a choice. 

He was a Gryffindor, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, Marlene throwing shade at Pet Sounds is a good example of how sometimes good people do bad things. 
> 
> The coupe de foudre - the lightning bolt moment - has occurred! Or at least one of them has. How do we feel about Sirius' revelation? Entertaining? Bit much?
> 
> Next chapter; Hogsmeade, Snape Chat, Benjy, Grace and Rosier content, dire warnings, tentative missives from hopeless admirers, and Remus Tries.


End file.
